PEACE 


I 


A.F.WILSON 


THE  WARS   OF   PEACE 


THE 
WARS  OF  PEACE 


BY 

A.  F.  WILSON 


Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Ireland 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1903, 

BY    LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND    COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 


Published  May,  1903 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"'  If  the  "  Missionary  Monopoly"  decides  to 

squeeze,  it  can  squeeze  hard  '  "   .     .     .     .     Frontispiece 

" '  May  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment  ?  "     .     .     .     Page    14 

"  He  woke  with  a  start,  and  turned,  hardly  able 

to  believe  his  eyes " "     121 

"  A  light,  uncertain  step  sounded  on  the  stair,  and 

Mrs.  Harding  stood  in  the  doorway "   ...         "     177 

"There   was   something   undaunted    about   her 

rigid  face " "     346 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 


CHAPTER  I 

"  It  was  first-class,  old  man,  and  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  so ! "  Marcus  Oakley  said  with  his 
peculiarly  winning  smile,  stretching  out  his  hand 
as  he  spoke.  "  I  thought  I'd  find  you  up  here." 

"  I'm  glad  you  liked  it,"  Reid  answered  care- 
lessly. "  I'm  heartily  thankful  it's  over." 

His  eyes  wandered  idly  from  his  friend's  face 
to  the  low,  red  walls  decorated  with  play-bills 
and  trophies;  the  dark  beams,  glistening  in  the 
lamplight;  the  leather  couches,  piled  with  cush- 
ions. The  warmth  of  the  fire  was  pleasant  in 
the  cool  of  the  May  evening,  his  cigar  was  fra- 
grant, and  he  was  in  the  mood  for  quiet,  confiden- 
tial talk.  Into  such  a  frame  of  mind  Oakley 
always  fitted  with  a  facile  habit  of  harmony  with 
his  surroundings. 

"  I  wonder  sometimes  if  the  honor  —  whatever 
you  get  out  of  a  thing  of  that  sort  —  pays  for 
the  bother?"  Oakley  said  thoughtfully. 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  There's  precious  little  honor,  when  you  come 
to  that,"  Reid  answered.  "  The  newspapers 
have  proved  again  and  again  that  it  is  the  foot- 
ball player  who  rises  to  the  Senate  and  the  vale- 
dictorian who  stays  behind  the  counter  all  his 
days." 

"  Well,  your  Founder's  Day  oration  can't  be 
laid  up  against  you.  'Twas  plain  common  sense. 
You  and  I  don't  agree  about  that,  anyway.  I 
don't  expect  to  have  my  college  record  trouble 
me." 

"  That's  just  what  I  have  been  saying  —  the 
Thanksgiving  game  will  take  the  curse  off  the 
Summa  Cum.  But  there's  no  hope  for  me." 

"  And  you  pull  a  splendid  stroke,  too,"  Oakley 
answered  regretfully. 

"  Being  sworn  at  up  and  down  the  river  every 
afternoon  doesn't  appeal  to  me,  somehow.  When 
you  have  to  do  a  thing  it  gets  to  be  work  and  not 
play." 

"  Well,  every  man  to  his  taste.  I  can  sym- 
pathize with  most  after  a  fashion  —  but  some  I 
can't  understand,"  he  added  after  a  little  pause, 
as  his  eyes  wandered  to  a  near-by  group. 

"  They've  been  hitting  quite  a  pace  this  year, 
haven't  they?  It's  a  pity,"  Reid  answered,  tak- 
ing in  the  significance  of  the  look.  A  pause  fol- 
lowed, invaded  by  the  clatter  of  mugs  and  bois- 

2 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

terous  laughter.  Reid  watched  the  group  a  little 
scornfully.  He  was  unfitted  by  nature  to  under- 
stand the  faults  of  manner  and  conduct  into 
which  Theodore  Harding  and  his  friends  had 
fallen.  Such  offences  were  primarily  those  of 
good  taste  to  Reid  and  verged  on  the  incompre- 
hensible. An  essential  fastidiousness  stood  him 
in  as  good  stead  as  principle,  and  an  offence  in 
manners  irritated  him  more  than  a  breach  of  mor- 
als. As  Harding's  high-pitched  laughter  rang  out 
above  the  rest,  Reid  knit  his  brows  and  his  lip 
curved  coldly. 

"  How  did  they  get  in  here,  anyway  ?  They're 
not  like  the  general  run  of  Stamp  and  Seal  men," 
Reid  went  on. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  It  isn't  my  place  to 
say  anything.  I  owe  being  here  to  Teddy  Hard- 
ing, as  I  happened  to  find  out." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  friend  of  his." 

"  I'm  not,  but  we  both  come  from  Underbill, 
and  went  to  the  same  fitting  school,"  Oakley  has- 
tened to  explain. 

"  In  a  way  he's  the  most  objectionable  of  those 
fellows;  but  I  don't  think  he's  the  worst,"  Reid 
continued  with  a  subtle  pleasure  in  his  character 
analysis. 

"  No,  but  he  always  seems  to  be  saying,  '  Look 
at  me!  What  a  little  devil  I  am  anyway.'  He 

3 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

parades  his  badness  and  if  he  gets  taken  at  his 
word  he  needn't  complain,"  Oakley  acquiesced 
easily. 

"I  suppose  you  know  his  people?"  Reid  in- 
quired. "What  are  they  like  ?  " 

"  His  father  is  a  big  manufacturer.  He  owns 
three  mills  in  Underhill  and  an  interest  in  nobody 
knows  how  many  more  all  over  the  country. 
They  have  lots  of  money." 

"  Are  there  any  other  children  ?  "  Reid  asked. 

"  A  daughter,  a  mighty  nice  little  girl.  But 
the  father  is  great  stuff;  a  thorough  business 
man,  keen  as  ever  was  but  straight  as  a  string, 
religious  and  all  that,  and  a  good  deal  of  a  scholar 
and  musician.  The  mother  is  exquisite,  the 
porcelain  sort.  She  must  have  been  a  beauty 
once,  and  is  still,  for  that  matter." 

"  It  wouldn't  strike  me  Teddy  belonged  to  a 
family  like  that,"  Reid  commented  keenly.  He 
was  interested  in  matters  of  heredity. 

"  He  doesn't,  exactly.  That  may  be  one  rea- 
son he  has  gone  a  little  wrong  — .  Confound  it, 
is  it  half-past  eight?  I'm  due  to  preside  at  the 
athletic  meeting  this  minute." 

Oakley  hurried  away  and  Reid  sat  watching 
the  group  with  half-shut,  speculative  eyes.  He 
was  not  naturally  tolerant  and  prided  himself  a 
little  upon  his  ideals,  a  little  more  upon  the  fact 

4 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

that  he  was  not  ashamed  to  live  up  to  them.  He 
did  not  thank  the  Lord  that  he  was  not  as  other 
men  —  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  acknowledging 
indebtedness  to  any  such  source;  he  only  lifted 
up  a  little  paean  to  Francis  Reid  for  his  deliver- 
ance. 

Suddenly  a  rollicking  voice  struck  up  a  song. 
Reid  knew  it  well,  for  he  had  often  heard  the 
same  group  of  Stamp  and  Seal  men  roaring  its 
chorus.  It  irritated  him  with  its  half-veiled  in- 
sinuations. He  rose,  annoyed  that  his  quiet  had 
been  disturbed ;  but,  as  he  stood  indecisive,  mock- 
ing words  interrupted  the  singer. 

"  Man !  man !  you  forget  you  are  shocking  lit- 
tle Theodora's  sensibilities.  Theodora  doesn't 
think  that's  a  pretty  song, —  she's  blushing  now. 
Can't  you  mind  your  manners  when  ladies  are 
around  ?  " 

Harding  rose  angrily,  colliding  with  Reid  as  he 
did  so,  and  started  for  the  door.  He  was  evi- 
dently perturbed,  but  made  no  objection  when 
Reid  slipped  a  friendly  hand  under  his  arm.  The 
latter  heard  his  companion  muttering, 

"  D  —  n  it  all !  They're  a  set  of  beastly 
Micks.  What  was  there  to  laugh  at  in  that,  I 
should  like  to  know?  I've  half  a  mind  to  cut 
the  whole  gang." 

Dusk  had  settled.  The  arc  lights  faded  and 
5 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

glowed  again  as  they  swung  in  the  cool  Spring 
breeze;  the  boughs  of  the  maples,  glad  with  fresh 
young  leaves,  stood  out  distinctly  against  the 
darkening  sky.  The  chill  of  the  street  was  re- 
freshing, and  with  a  common  impulse  the  two 
young  men  turned  southward. 

Reid  was  pleased  with  this  sudden  confirmation 
of  his  character  analysis.  But  he  hesitated  to 
speak.  He  knew  the  average  young  man's  dis- 
like for  the  discussion  of  serious  things.  He 
realized  that  advice  would  come  but  awkwardly 
from  him,  Harding's  senior  by  no  more  than  two 
years.  Nevertheless  he  felt  himself  a  man  in  ex- 
perience and  character  beside  this  wilful,  un- 
formed boy.  He  felt  that  he  must  run  the  risk 
of  seeming  to  preach,  the  chance  of  alienating 
confidence,  rather  than  ignore  this  tacit  appeal. 
So  after  a  little  thoughtful  pause  he  said  care- 
lessly, 

"  Why  don't  you  shake  them  ?  They're  not 
your  sort." 

"  I  guess  you're  wrong  there,  Reid,"  his  com- 
panion answered  a  trifle  wistfully.  "  They're  the 
sort  I've  always  been  with." 

'  Yes,  but  you're  not  satisfied  with  it ;  you 
don't  really  like  it." 

"  I  like  it  well  enough.  It's  all  I'm  fit  for,  any- 
way." 

6 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Nonsense !  " 

"  It's  not  nonsense.  What's  a  fellow  going  to 
do?  I  can't  make  Founder's  Day  speeches,  or 
edit  magazines.  I  don't  know  enough.  I  can't 
do  any  thing  in  athletics.  I'm  not  big  enough." 

"  All  that  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  be 
decent  and  herd  with  decent  folks,"  said  Reid 
with  calculating  bluntness.  The  other's  mood  of 
abasement  seemed  to  him  unwholesome.  "  You're 
a  popular  fellow.  Anybody  I  know  would  be 
glad  to  see  more  of  you  if  you  didn't  always  have 
that  set  hanging  around.  People  like  you.  They 
can't  help  it,  if  you  do  act  like  a  fool."  The  tone 
robbed  the  epithet  of  any  sting. 

"  They  may  like  me,  some  of  them,"  Harding 
answered  thoughtfully,  "  but  they  don't  respect 
me." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  The  rig  you've 
been  running  doesn't  count  for  much,  if  you  only 
stop  it  in  time.  It's  a  thing  lots  of  fellows  fall 
into  and  come  out  of  again,  with  no  harm  done. 
It's  your  own  feeling  for  yourself  it  counts  with 
most." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  two  wheeled 
as  they  came  to  the  river  side  and  turned  home- 
ward again.  At  last  Reid  said, 

"  A  man  who  is  coming  in  for  a  share  in  a  big 
7 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

business,  and  all  the  responsibility  that  goes  with 
it,  needs  to  be  all  he  can  make  himself." 

"  I  know  it.  My  chance  ought  to  go  to  a  bet- 
ter man.  Now  you  could  make  use  of  it.  You 
know  how  the  thing  ought  to  be  done." 

"  Nonsense,  I'm  only  a  theorist.  You've  got 
the  stuff  in  you  all  right.  Give  yourself  a  fair 
show.  Suppose  'twas  some  other  chap  you  were 
responsible  for  —  a  younger  brother  you  were 
guardian  of,  or  something  of  that  sort.  You'd 
try  to  keep  him  out  of  company  that  wasn't  good 
for  him;  and  then  if  he  did  get  up  against  it 
hard,  someway  or  other,  you  wouldn't  tell  him 
'twas  all  he  was  good  for,  and  there  was  no  show 
for  him.  You'd  start  him  fresh  and  brace  him 
up.  Why  don't  you  do  the  square  thing  by  your- 
self?" 

"  By  Jove,  that's  so!  "  said  Harding  thought- 
fully, and  then  was  silent.  Reid  hesitated  to 
break  the  pause.  He  preferred  to  say  too  little 
than  too  much ;  and  did  not  guess  how  keen  a  de- 
sire for  advice  and  sympathy  lay  beneath  the  half- 
shy,  half-defiant  manner.  He  did  not  realize  that 
Harding,  man-of-the-world  as  he  counted  him- 
self, was  on  the  verge  of  petulant,  boyish  tears. 

When  they  parted  Theodore  went  directly  to 
his  room,  and  flinging  himself  on  his  couch, 
stared  about  him  with  gloomy  eyes.  The  bar- 

8 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

baric  jumble  of  gay  cushions  and  hangings  and 
gaudy  posters  offended  him  vaguely.  He  was  at 
odds  with  his  whole  world.  Reid's  oration  of 
the  night  before,  with  its  outlining  of  the  rela- 
tions which  should  exist  between  the  employer 
and  his  workmen,  had  come  with  exaggerated 
force  to  one  unthinking  member  of  his  audience, 
and  had  hastened  the  awakening  which  had  been 
going  on  all  the  year.  Harding  told  himself  bit- 
terly that  he  was  a  failure  and  had  been  one  too 
long  to  hope  for  anything  better.  He  was  sensi- 
tive to  subtle  atmospheres,  and  knew  that  his  re- 
served father  counted  his  son  as  a  small  factor  in 
all  plans  for  the  future.  This  hopeless  sense  of 
his  own  limitations  had  acted  as  a  strong  impetus 
toward  the  wild  company  which  had  welcomed 
him  so  gladly. 

He  did  not,  however,  consider  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances tonight.  He  thought  shrinkingly  of 
four  wasted  college  years  —  of  boisterous  mid- 
night suppers,  of  hazy  returns  to  his  room,  of 
dim,  disordered  mornings.  Some  things,  he 
thought  humbly,  he  had  not  to  reproach  himself 
with  —  things  which  certain  of  his  comrades 
treated  lightly.  There  was  an  inherent  purity, 
amid  all  his  faults,  that  had  stood  him  in  good 
stead.  But  in  his  humility  the  vices  far  outnum- 
bered the  virtues,  and  showed  black  indeed  to  his 

9 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

gloomy  view.  His  sense  of  humor  told  him  that 
May  of  his  senior  year  was  over-late  to  begin  seri- 
ous study.  Nevertheless,  he  seated  himself 
doggedly  at  his  desk  with  firm-set,  boyish  lips, 
and  with  an  unworn  volume  of  "  Mill "  before 
him. 


10 


CHAPTER  II 

Four  years  later,  on  a  night  in  May,  Francis 
Reid  left  the  train  at  the  city  of  Underliill.  The 
country  through  which  he  had  travelled  was 
flushed  with  pink  and  white  and  tender  green. 
The  air,  even  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lilac  and  apple- 
blossom.  But  a  depression,  alien  to  the  bright- 
ness of  the  May  landscape,  had  weighed  all  day 
upon  his  spirit.  Representative  of  the  Boston 
"  Observer "  though  he  was,  his  was  only  a 
chance  assignment  which  would  probably  end 
with  the  termination  of  the  big  strike.  He  had 
only  this  casual  employment  to  show  at  the  end 
of  four  years ;  he  was  shabby,  and  poor  and  hun- 
gry also,  he  admitted,  smiling  bitterly.  Sharpest 
of  all  came  the  thought  that  he  must  meet  Theo- 
dore Harding  in  Underhill. 

He  had  not  followed  Harding' s  fortunes  since 
graduation ;  and  had  hardly  thought  of  him  until 

ii 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

the  beginning  of  the  strike  had  brought  Under- 
hill  and  the  Hardings  to  the  notice  of  the  whole 
country.  Theodore's  opinions  were  quoted  re- 
spectfully, his  influence  among  the  men  comment- 
ed on,  and  Reid  realized  with  surprise  that  his 
classmate  had  become  a  person  of  importance. 

For  himself,  he  realized  that  no  such  thing 
could  be  said.  He  had  learned  stern  lessons :  that 
a  man,  brilliant  and  well-educated,  is  not  neces- 
sarily successful ;  that  theories  and  ideals  are  not 
made  of  stuff  to  stand  the  wear  of  life;  that  the 
loss  of  things  so  immaterial,  painful  though  it 
may  be,  does  not  hinder  the  physical  process  of 
living;  that  the  baffled  desire  for  the  elemental 
and  necessary  leaves  little  room  for  other  long- 
ings. Some  casual  happening  will  often  put  an 
end  to  the  lethargy  of  disappointment.  So  the 
knowledge  that  he  must,  in  all  probability,  meet 
Theodore  Harding,  and  give  an  account  of  four 
unprofitable  years,  stung  Reid  to  a  fresh  sense  of 
failure.  His  instinct  for  news  revived,  however, 
and  he  forgot  his  depression  when  once  he  alight- 
ed at  the  station.  The  little  square,  flanked  by 
tall  office  buildings,  seemed  packed  with  people. 
Reid  knew  that  a  train-load  of  non-union  work- 
men was  expected  that  night,  and  easily  guessed 
the  meaning  of  the  assemblage.  He  saw,  too, 
that  the  temper  of  the  crowd  was  growing  more 

12 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

and  more  unsafe  as  the  listeners  crowded  about 
a  baggage-dray  on  the  station  platform.  From 
this  extemporized  height  a  man  was  addressing 
the  crowd.  The  rosy  light  of  the  after-glow 
tinged  the  pallid,  dark  face  with  a  fictitious  color. 
The  deep  tones  of  the  voice  rang  out  over  the 
restless  people  who  winced  under  the  cutting 
words. 

There  was  nothing  new  in  the  speech, —  the 
same  things  were  said  that  night  from  a  hundred 
places  in  the  land.  The  trite  catch-words,  the 
arraignment  of  capital,  the  deification  of  labor, — 
all  took  a  new  force,  however,  from  the  passion 
of  the  man's  splendid  voice.  Reid  listened  im- 
patiently. He  wanted  to  counsel  order  and  pa- 
tience, and  the  dignity  that  would  command  re- 
spect the  world  over.  He  made  a  movement 
toward  the  truck  where  the  speaker  stood,  then  he 
stopped.  Of  what  use  for  him  to  speak?  He 
was  absolutely  unknown,  and  without  influence. 
He  could  only  listen  helplessly  to  the  sinister  note 
that  gradually  crept  into  the  murmur  of  voices. 

The  scene  appealed  to  him  keenly, —  the  crowd 
growing  more  picturesque,  less  distinct,  as  the 
twilight  deepened,  the  lithe  figure,  the  quaint  an- 
gles of  the  station  roof,  the  lights  and  shades. 
All  the  accessories  seemed  as  if  arranged  by  a 
clever  stage-manager  to  heighten  the  dramatic 

13 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

effect.  The  curious,  electric  tension  generated  by 
a  crowd,  filled  the  air  and  crept  into  Reid's  own 
veins.  He  felt  growing  in  his  mind  a  good  story 
for  the  "  Observer."  He  lost  nothing  of  what 
happened,  but  all  the  time  he  was  half-conscious- 
ly  putting  it  into  telling  phrases.  Suddenly  there 
came  a  movement  in  the  crowd.  A  man,  tall, 
erect,  and  with  snowy  hair,  stood  upon  the  plat- 
form. He  lifted  a  hand  which  gleamed  white  in 
the  dusk.  Something  in  the  dignity  of  the  fig- 
ure, in  the  air  of  conscious  power,  quelled  for  a 
moment  the  growing  restlessness  about  him.  The 
effect  was  only  transitory,  however.  The  cul- 
tured voice,  with  its  refined  accent,  failed  to  dom- 
inate the  crowd.  The  well-chosen  words  seemed 
flat  and  pointless.  The  speaker  faltered  and 
paused  as,  cold  and  sibilant,  a  hiss  cut  the  air. 

Time  was  passing  swiftly  and  the  train,  laden 
with  non-union  men,  was  steadily  drawing  nearer. 
Reid  felt  that  the  temper  of  the  mob  was  growing 
more  and  more  dangerous.  He  was  wondering 
if  he  had  any  message  powerful  enough,  any 
words  graphic  enough,  to  offset  his  obscurity, 
when  his  arm  was  softly  touched. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment?  "  a  low 
voice  said  in  his  ear. 

Reid  turned  with  a  nervous  start  and  recog- 
nized the  man  who  had  just  spoken  so  fruitlessly. 

14 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

The  striking  face  was  unmistakable.  The  head 
was  held  high,  but  the  voice  quivered  with  sup- 
pressed feeling  and  nervous  anxiety.  The  young 
man  followed  his  elder  out  of  earshot  of  the 
crowd,  yielding  as  if  to  lawful  authority. 

"  Will  you  help  me  stop  this  business?  It  is 
coming  to  murder  if  we  don't  do  something. 
The  only  thing  I  can  think  of  is  to  stop  the  train 
at  Wilmot  —  but  I  can't  get  at  the  telegraph 
office.  I've  just  been  trying.  They've  got 
guards  set  over  the  telephones  at  the  offices.  They 
seem  to  be  regularly  organized  and  bound  to  pre- 
vent us  from  getting  the  men  in  here;  but  any- 
body who  can  make  the  run  in  good  time  can  get 
up  to  my  house  and  telephone  from  there.  Will 
you  try  it?  If  my  son  is  there  tell  him  to  come 
down  at  once." 

"  Yes,  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  Albion  Harding's  —  at  the  left  on  the  top  of 
the  West  hill."  It  seemed  that  there  was  a  note 
of  surprise  in  the  speaker's  voice. 

Reid  handed  Mr.  Harding  his  light  bag,  and 
buttoned  up  his  coat.  He  was  a  little  dazed  by 
the  orders  showered  upon  him,  but  he  had  no 
thought  of  disobeying.  He  walked  rapidly  off 
through  the  square  until  he  was  hidden  by  a  line 
of  tall  office  buildings,  then  he  broke  into  a  swift, 
steady  run.  He  followed,  without  hesitation, 

15 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

the  direction  which  Mr.  Harding's  ringer  had 
pointed  out,  and  after  moments  which  seemed 
endless  he  turned  in  at  the  gate.  He  padded 
noiselessly  across  the  lawn  just  as  the  single,  mel- 
low clock  stroke  rose  from  the  valley. 

A  light  burning  in  the  hall  cast  a  band  of  gold 
through  the  open  door,  but  otherwise  the  house 
was  dark,  with  the  exception  of  a  glimmering 
window  on  the  third  floor.  Reid  paused  a  mo- 
ment irresolute,  then  ran  up  the  broad  veranda 
steps.  His  hand  was  already  on  the  door  when  a 
rough  voice  from  behind  him  cried, 

"  What  do  you  want?  Stop  or  I'll  fire!  " 
On  a  sudden  impulse  of  self-preservation,  Reid 
sprang  inside  and  closed  the  door.  The  massive 
lock  clicked  behind  him.  What  was  the  mean- 
ing of  this  guarded,  deserted  house,  this  challeng- 
ing sentry  ?  A  glimmering  of  the  truth  began  to 
come  to  him,  but  there  was  no  time  for  thought. 
Where  was  the  telephone?  where  was  Theodore 
Harding?  Reid  paused,  then  with  a  sudden  re- 
solve he  darted  upstairs,  shouting  at  the  top  of 
his  voice, 

"  Harding !     Harding !     Teddy  Harding !  " 
The    familiar   name    wakened    long    dormant 
chords    of    memory;    and    almost    involuntarily 
Reid's  lips  opened  in  the  old  society  cry, 

16 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"'Rah!  'Rah!  Stamp! 
'Rah!  'Rah!  Seal 
True  and  leal! 
Harvard ! " 

The  sounds  echoed  strangely  through  the  de- 
serted house  and,  from  far  above,  came  something 
stronger  than  an  echo, 

"  True  and  leal ! 

Harvard." 

A  moment  more  and  the  two  men  were  clasp- 
ing hands. 

There  was  no  time  for  greetings.  Reid  gasped 
with  the  first  breath  which  came  to  him, 

"  Where's  the  telephone?  Your  father  sent  me 
to  stop  the  train  at  Wilmot  The  strikers  are 
lying  for  the  scabs  at  the  station." 

"Thunder!"  groaned  Theodore.  "Down  in 
the  library.  That's  what  they  locked  me  in  up 
here  for.  The  men  listen  to  me  sometimes." 

They  were  running  downstairs  side  by  side  to 
the  dark  library.  Reid  was  conscious  that  the 
blows  which  had  been  crashing  on  the  outer  door 
during  his  brief  rush  upstairs  had  ceased.  A 
sharp  click  and  the  room  was  flooded  with  light, 
another  instant  and  Harding  stood  at  the  tele- 
phone, with  the  receiver  in  his  hand. 

"  Hulloa!  "  he  said  sharply.  His  words  were 
drowned  for  Reid  by  the  shatter  of  glass  some- 

17 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

where  at  the  rear  of  the  house.  He  swung  the 
library  door  to  and  locked  it.  The  voice  at  the 
telephone  was  saying, 

"Is  that  Wilmot  Station?  What?  — Yes, 
Harding !  Stop  the  8 145  —  8 140,  I  mean,  8 140 ! 
The  strikers  are  lying  for  the  scabs  at  the  sta- 
tion!" 

—  The  thump  of  running  feet  sounded  past  the 
library  door  and  up  the  oaken  stairs. 

"  What?  The  strikers  are  lying  for  the  scabs ! 
What  ?  Can't  stop  it  ?  Then  send  it  past  —  for 
Heaven's  sake,  send  it  past!  " 

Harding  flung  down  the  receiver.  Heavy 
blows  were  sounding  on  the  library  door.  In  a 
flash  he  raised  the  window  and  swung  himself 
over  the  sill,  Reid  following. 

"  We  were  in  time,"  Harding  said,  for  as  they 
circled  the  house  over  the  soft  lawn,  and  emerged 
into  the  drive,  they  heard  the  distant  shriek  of  the 
8 140  as  it  left  Wilmot. 

Once  out  in  the  street  again,  the  two  men  set- 
tled down  to  a  steady  run.  At  last  they  came  out 
into  the  upper  side  of  the  square,  where  they  could 
overlook  the  scene  plainly. 

There  was  utter  silence  in  the  big  crowd, —  a 
silence  which  jarred  more  upon  the  nerves  than 
the  loudest  noise.  All  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 

18 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

track.     All  ears  were  alert  to  catch  the  whistle  of 
the  oncoming  train. 

Suddenly  without  warning,  with  heat  and  fever 
of  haste,  it  was  upon  them,  forcing  them  to  fall 
back  upon  each  other  by  its  onrush.  Almost  be- 
fore they  had  grasped  the  meaning  of  the  thing  it 
had  passed  on  into  the  darkness,  leaving  behind 
it  a  trail  of  golden  sparks  and  a  long  mocking 
sigh. 


CHAPTER  III 

Suddenly  a  woman's  voice  flared  out  sharply 
into  the  darkness. 

"  Albion  Harding  done  it.  I  see  him  sendin' 
somebody  somewhere." 

The  crowd  was  quickly  busy  piecing  matters 
together.  The  murmur  of  comment  rose  into  a 
growl  that  made  Reid  shiver  with  excitement  and 
apprehension.  Above  the  confused  sound  rose 
isolated  voices, 

"  Come  on,  men !  To  Harding' s !  To  Hard- 
ing's!" 

The  cry  ran  from  one  to  another,  and  the  dark 
mass  began  to  break  up  into  little  groups  and 
stream  to  the  northward.  Reid  missed  his  com- 
panion from  his  side,  and  saw  that  the  slen- 
der figure  stood  in  the  street  directly  in  the  path 
of  the  mob.  The  high-pitched  voice  rang  out  in 
short,  stern  sentences.  The  speech  was  broken 
and  disconnected,  hardly  a  speech  at  all,  but  it 

20 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

evidently  went  home;  for  when  Harding  paused 
with  a  disheartened  break  in  his  words  someone 
in  the  crowd  called  cheerfully, 

"What's  the  matter  with  Teddy?"  and  the 
dusky  mass  droned  in  good-humored  response, 
"He's  all  right!" 

Perhaps  the  discouragement  of  Harding's  tones 
had  touched  the  audience,  for  in  some  sudden 
change  of  mood  all  the  anger  of  a  moment  before 
had  vanished  and  they  began  to  disperse  rapidly. 

Reid  suddenly  realized  how  tired  he  was.  He 
dropped  down  upon  the  nearest  curbstone  and  let 
group  after  group  pass  him.  He  was  wondering 
as  to  the  source  of  Theodore's  power  over  men; 
and  the  answer  came  as  he  asked  the  question : 

"  It  ain't  anything  Teddy  says  —  he  can't  fling 
words  round  the  way  the  old  man  can,  but  just  see 
the  difference!  Nobody  cared  what  Albion 
Harding  said,  but  they  all  listened  the  minute 
Teddy  piped  up." 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right.  He  knows  he  ain't  any 
better'n  anybody  else." 

"  An'  that  ain't  all.  He  knows  about  us,  an' 
cares  about  us." 

Here  and  there  Reid  caught  details  phrased  in 
the  polyglot  English  of  the  mill  town;  hints  of 
fruit  for  a  sick  child,  a  loan  in  time  of  trouble, 

21 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

a  simple,  wordless  sympathy  that  counted  beyond 
telling  with  these  rough  men  and  women. 

How  could  it  be?  the  listener  questioned. 
Teddy  Harding  of  college  days  had  hardly  a 
thought  beyond  his  own  pleasure,  and  now  he 
held  the  hearts  of  a  city  of  people  in  his  hand. 
There  was  evidently  much  behind  the  blundering, 
boyish  phrases.  Reid  remembered  the  ready 
friendliness,  the  open  purse,  the  kindly  tolerance 
of  all  sorts  of  mistakes  and  sins,  which  had  made 
for  Theodore  Harding  so  many  friends  in  college. 
He  remembered  that  the  men  who  had  been  loud- 
est in  their  disapproval  of  him  had  been  fond  of 
him.  He,  himself  had  sought  him  out,  after  their 
free  talk  together,  and  had  felt  the  same  sweet, 
human  element  in  a  character  otherwise  rather 
slight.  There  came  to  him  now,  for  the  first 
time,  a  realization  of  the  power  of  an  uncritical 
love  of  humanity. 

As  he  pondered  half -dreamily,  in  the  midst  of 
his  weariness,  some  further  conversation  reached 
his  ears. 

"  What's  the  reason  the  boy  is  so  popular  ?  He 
doesn't  begin  to  do  as  much  for  them  as  his  father 
does,"  a  hoarse  voice  asked  from  just  behind 
him. 

The  answer  came  in  tones  that  haunted  Reid 
with  their  familiarity. 

22 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Say  yourself !  Mr.  Harding  tries  to  help  his 
men  just  as  far  as  libraries  and  reading  rooms 
will  do  it,  and  I  think  he  honestly  wants  to  make 
friends  with  them ;  only  he  doesn't  know  how." 

"  He  never  can  get  over  the  fact  that  he  is 
Albion  Harding,"  the  other  replied  cynically.  "  I 
always  feel  that  he's  looking  down  on  me,  and 
I'm  not  so  deuced  thin-skinned,  either." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Burnham.  He 
doesn't  so  much  give  you  the  impression  that  he 
feels  above  you,  as  that  he's  trying  not  to." 

"  Hair-splitting,  but  not  bad,  Oakley !  " 

"  It's  true,  and  Teddy  doesn't  have  any  idea 
that  he  is  better  than  anybody  else." 

"  He's  a  good  little  chap,  and  he's  got  lots  more 
business  in  him  than  his  father  gives  him  credit 
for." 

As  the  two  men  moved  away,  Reid  realized 
that  it  was  his  old  friend  Oakley  who  had  been 
speaking,  and  that  he  was  evidently  a  regular  in- 
habitant of  Underbill.  Reid  was  glad  that  there 
was  little  chance  of  a  meeting,  and  even  relieved 
that  Harding  had  disappeared.  In  his  weariness 
and  disheartenment,  he  dreaded  the  inevitable 
questions  and  comparisons  of  experience.  He 
could  now  slip  away  quietly,  telegraph  a  line  re- 
garding the  night's  happenings  to  the  "  Ob- 
server," and  then  seek  some  cheap  lodging-house. 

23 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

He  was  crossing  the  square  to  the  telegraph 
office,  when  he  heard  a  quick,  light  step  behind 
him,  and  felt  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  old  man  ?  "  was  Hard- 
ing's  brisk  greeting. 

"  I  was  bound  for  the  telegraph  office,  to  send  a 
message  to  the  '  Observer.' ' 

The  other  waited  until  the  message  was  sent, 
then  he  said  heartily :  "  Well,  how  are  you, 
Frank?  We  haven't  had  a  chance  for  any  of  the 
compliments  of  the  season.  You  don't  know  how 
good  it  seems  to  see  you." 

"  Same  here !  "  Reid  answered  with  sincerity. 

'You're  coming  home  with  me?  Nonsense! 
of  course  you  are  fit.  Father  and  I  are  alone. 
My  mother  and  sister  are  away.  I've  been  hunt- 
ing all  over  for  my  father.  Can't  find  him,  but 
we  won't  wait  any  longer." 

"  He  sent  me  up  to  your  house." 
'  Yes,  lots  of  people  have  seen  him,  he's  all 
right.     You'll  come,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  hospitality  of  Harding's  voice  was  difficult 
to  withstand,  and  Reid  felt  his  resolution  waning. 
Almost  involuntarily  he  answered : 

'*  Yes,  since  you  are  so  good.  It  does  seem 
good  to  see  a  Stamp  and  Seal  man  again." 

"  Doesn't  it  ?  You  don't  know  how  funny  it 
felt  to  hear  that  old  yell  again.  Up  there,  shut 

24 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

up,  and  mad, —  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  to  hear 
you  yelling.  I  tell  you  it  went  all  over  me  like  a 
flash.  I  felt  like  blubbering." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  locked  up  there, 
anyway?  " 

"  More  than  I  know.  Only  I  was  up  a  big 
part  of  last  night  trying  to  straighten  things  out ; 
and  I  was  horribly  sleepy,  and  went  upstairs  to 
my  den  for  a  nap.  I  slept  over,  and  I'd  just 
waked  and  found  I  was  locked  in,  when  I  heard 
you  shouting." 

"  Nobody  back  yet,"  he  said  a  few  minutes 
later,  as  they  came  within  sight  of  the  unlighted 
house.  "  We  miss  mother's  supervision.  I 
hoped  the  cook  would  be  back.  It's  her  night 
out  and  we  were  going  to  dine  down  town ;  but  I 
didn't,  you  see.  Come  in  here  and  I'll  forage." 

Reid  followed  his  host  into  the  library,  and 
waited  in  a  tired  content  for  his  return.  He 
must  have  dozed,  for  he  was  roused  suddenly  by 
Theodore's  entrance  with  a  hastily  collected 
luncheon. 

"  Now  come  along,  Reid,  tell  me  something1 
about  yourself,"  he  said  as  they  fell  to  eating 
hungrily. 

'  There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  said  Reid,  stiffening 
at  the  reminder  of  things  which  he  had  forgotten 
for  a  moment. 

25 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Oh,  but  what  have  you  been  doing  these  four 
years?  Something  worth  while,  I'll  be  bound. 
You  were  on  the  '  Labor  Gazette  '  the  last  I  knew. 
But  you  spoke  of  the  '  Observer '  tonight." 

"  I  left  the  '  Labor  Gazette '  two  years  ago.  I 
couldn't  stand  the  ground  it  took  at  the  time  of 
the  Milldam  Iron  Strike." 

"And  then?" 

"  Of  course  I  didn't  get  another  editorial  posi- 
tion. I  was  reporter  on  the  New  York  '  Orbit,' 
but  I  fell  out  with  the  editor.  He  said  I  was  too 
high-toned  for  the  business,  and  I  guess  I  was, 
as  he  ran  it,"  and  Reid  smiled  grimly.  "  That's 
all  there  is  to  me.  Now  tell  me  about  yourself." 

"  There  isn't  anything  to  tell.  There  honestly 
isn't.  I've  just  been  here,  busy  learning  the  busi- 
ness from  the  start,  trying  to  help  the  governor 
out.  I  haven't  made  a  great  success  of  it." 

"  Oh,  I  heard  about  the  things  you've  been  do- 
ing." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Little  chance  bits  of  gossip  to  the  effect  that 
you  are  the  guardian  angel  of  half  of  Underbill." 

"Nonsense!"  and  Theodore  flushed  guiltily. 
"  I  haven't  done  anything." 

"  Then  you've  been  imposing  on  them  shame- 
fully. They  seemed  to  think  you  had." 

"  Have  some  more  coffee,  Reid.  Don't  you 
26 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

find  it  good  ?  I  pride  myself  on  my  coffee  mak- 
ing, I  learned  it  camping."  Then  he  paused  with 
the  coffee-pot  raised,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  perhaps 
you  would  rather  have  some  wine?  I  never 
thought." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  Reid  answered,  perhaps  with 
a  question  in  his  eyes,  for  Theodore  said  quietly : 

"  I've  given  it  up  myself.  I  thought  it  was 
just  as  well." 

"  Do  you  know,  Teddy,"  Reid  said  frankly, 
"  I'm  proud  of  you." 

"  Well,  anything  I've  amounted  to  so  far  you've 
had  a  hand  in." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Harding  seldom  spoke  of  such  things  as  affect- 
ed him  most  deeply ;  but  the  evening's  happenings 
had  moved  him  to  confidence,  and  he  went  on  with 
a  rush : 

"  Do  you  remember  your  Founder's  Day  ora- 
tion? 'Twas  four  years  ago  tonight." 

"  Yes,  I  was  thinking  this  afternoon  of  all  the 
fine  theories  I  had  then  and  how  little  they  have 
stood  by  me." 

"  Some  of  them  have  stood  by  me  pretty 
well,"  said  Harding  gravely.  "  Some  of  the 
things  you  said  that  night,  and  to  me  afterwards, 
stuck.  They  set  me  thinking.  I  must  have  been 
an  awful  little  cad  in  college.  I  wonder  you  put 

27 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

up  with  me  at  all.  I've  wanted  to  write  and  tell 
you  how  you  helped  me ;  but  somehow  I  never  got 
to  it." 

"  You  exaggerate  my  part  in  it,  Teddy.  But 
if  I've  helped  you  at  all  I'm  glad.  It  helps  take 
the  edge  off  the  general  failure  I've  made  of 
things." 

Reid,  looking  at  Theodore's  face,  thought  how 
much  it  had  changed  for  the  better.  The  pointed, 
brown  beard  hid  the  suggestion  of  weakness  about 
the  chin,  the  dark  eyes  were  at  once  keen  and  kind. 
There  was  the  same  high-bred,  alert,  eager  con- 
tour of  the  whole  face  that  had  made  someone 
compare  him  to  a  blooded  fox-terrier.  Even  the 
lines  of  his  slender  figure,  so  perfect  in  proportion 
that  he  hardly  seemed  undersized,  bore  out  the 
comparison.  The  face  had  aged  unduly  and  the 
light  showed  premature  threads  of  gray  in  the 
dark  hair;  but  the  boyish  laugh  and  the  sponta- 
neous manner  and  speech  were  unchanged. 

"  Yes,  Teddy,"  Reid  reiterated  after  a  thought- 
ful pause,  "  I'm  proud  of  you." 


28 


CHAPTER  IV 

Theodore  and  Reid  sat  talking  in  the  library 
until  Mr.  Harding  returned.  Late  as  it  was  when 
he  arrived  his  day's  work  was  not  over,  for  he 
brought  Roger  Burnham  with  him.  These  two 
men  presented  strongly  contrasted  types,  though 
neither  was  perhaps  more  thoroughly  American 
than  the  other.  In  heavy  figure,  congested  face, 
full  lips  and  dogged  chin,  Burnham,  man-of-the- 
world  in  all  that  the  phrase  may  imply  of  dubious 
experience,  was  the  antithesis  of  Harding.  Yet 
both  bore  in  subtle  ways  the  marks  of  power. 

Before  Burnham  lay  a  type-written  list  which 
he  checked  off  in  heavy  black  dots  with  a  blunt 
pencil.  At  length  he  looked  up  with  a  grim  smile. 

"  There  are  just  four  firms  in  the  whole  d  —  d 
pool  that  haven't  made  friends  of  the  Mammon 
of  Unrighteousness  to  our  certain  knowledge. 
They  may  have  to,  for  all  we  know.  I'm  sick 
of  it." 

29 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  admit  that  our  experiment  has  not  been  a 
success.  But  what  is  to  be  done?  "  Mr.  Harding 
often  asked  questions  whose  answers  he  knew. 

"  You  know  what  is  to  be  done  —  incorporate." 

"  But  Jias  the  time  come  for  that  yet  ?  There 
is  sure  to  be  decided  objection  in  many  quarters." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  Burnham  asked  keenly. 

"  Mr.  Ordway,  for  one,  would  never  consent  to 
such  a  thing  for  a  moment." 

"  Well,  Ordway  is  only  one.  He's  got  a  small 
factory,  and  a  low-grade  output.  He  don't  count 
for  much.  Make  sure  of  the  others,  and  we  can 
get  along  without  him,  if  he  can  without  us." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  replied  Mr.  Harding. 
"  We  want  him,  however.  It  would  be  very  un- 
pleasant to  have  an  independent  firm  here  in  Un- 
derhill  with  which  we  should  come  into  collision 
all  the  time." 

"  Oh  well,  if  you  can  get  him  over  it's  all  the 
better,  of  course,"  replied  Burnham  tolerantly. 
"  But  you're  too  thin-skinned.  It's  the  man's 
own  lookout.  Let  him  do  as  he  pleases." 

"  There  is  really  no  reason  why  he  should  see 
matters  in  that  light." 

"  He's  got  some  sentimental  objections  about 
giving  up  his  independence,"  Burnham  replied 
with  fine  scorn.  "  Now  I  can't  afford  to  consider 
sentiment." 

30 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Mr.  Ordway  evidently  can,"  Mr.  Harding 
answered  languidly. 

"  I  asked  him  something  about  that  the  other 
day,"  Burnham  volunteered,  "  and  I  gathered  that 
he  thought  he  was  making  money.  He  wasn't 
very  definite,  but  I  judged  you  or  I  wouldn't  look 
at  it  in  that  light.  He  came  up  from  the  ranks, 
you  know." 

"  Did  he?     That's  interesting." 

"  Yes,  it  seems  he  grew  up  here  in  Underbill, 
and  worked  in  your  father's  mill.  Then  he  went 
West  somewhere,  got  hold  of  some  money,  came 
back  here  and  bought  the  Davis  mill  —  that  be- 
longed to  your  father  once,  didn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  sold  it  off  when  I  first  took  the  man- 
agement of  the  business,  and  bought  my  Number 
Four." 

"  A  good  move  too.  Even  then  it  couldn't 
have  been  up  to  Number  Four." 

"  No,  it  was  small  and  was  in  poor  shape  then. 
It  can't  be  in  any  better  condition  now,"  Mr. 
Harding  added  reflectively. 

"  Well,  Ordway  never  guesses  it  isn't  the  finest 
thing  in  the  state.  You  ought  to  hear  him  talk 
about  it.  Proud  as  a  man  with  his  first  kid  —  or 
horse.  Yes,  he  holds  he's  making  money." 

"  He  has  been  in  favor  of  giving  way,  in  a 
measure  at  least,  to  the  strikers  throughout." 

31 


"  He  and  that  boy  of  yours  have  done  a  good 
deal  toward  making  the  matter  drag  on,  by  the 
stand  they've  taken."  Burnham's  tone  was  a 
little  acrid. 

"  You  can't  wonder  at  Mr.  Ordway's  stand  if 
he  is  a  self-made  man.  His  sympathies  would 
naturally  be  with  that  class.  But  there  is  no  such 
excuse  for  my  son's  conduct."  A  note  of  genuine 
dejection  crept  into  the  elder  Harding's  voice. 

"  Young  blood !  You  have  to  stand  a  good 
deal  from  puppies  in  the  hope  they  will  grow  up 
into  self-respecting  dogs  some  day,"  rejoined 
Burnham  tolerantly. 

Mr.  Harding  hardly  relished  having  his  son 
alluded  to  as  a  puppy.  But  the  intention  was  evi- 
dently kindly  and  the  point  of  view  reassuring,  so 
he  changed  the  subject  amicably. 

"  I  really  do  not  see  how  the  smaller  firms  man- 
age to  keep  alive  in  the  midst  of  such  competi- 
tion." 

"They  don't!"  laughed  Burnham  shortly. 
"  Labor  —  spelled  with  a  capital,  curse  it !  —  is 
getting  so  it  asks  more  every  day.  Everybody 
is  booming  along,  producing  at  full  speed  and 
putting  the  price  down.  A  man  has  to  have  new 
and  more  expensive  machinery  all  the  time  or  else 
get  hopelessly  left.  You've  no  idea  what  it 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

means,  Harding,  to  a  man  without  money  behind 
him." 

"  The  only  solution  is  the  one  we  are  arriving 
at  —  mutual  protection.  With  an  association  of 
all  the  manufacturers  in  the  state  or  the  country, 
an  iron-bound  agreement  which  shall  regulate  the 
price  of  raw  material,  and  the  output  as  well  as 
the  sales  of  the  product,  there's  a  chance  for  the 
small  manufacturer." 

1  There's  more  chance  for  us  all.  I  don't  call 
myself  a  small  manufacturer,  though  I  suppose  I 
am  beside  the  amount  of  business  you  do, —  but 
by  G  —  !  I'm  hard  up.  I'm  just  working  along, 
inch  by  inch,  keeping  my  head  above  water.  I've 
got  to  sell  some  of  my  horses  if  things  keep  on 

this  way.  And  a  set  of fools  in  Congress 

all  the  time  tinkering  tariff  bills,  till  you  never 
know  where  you  stand." 

*  There  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  what  you  say. 
There  is  every  reason  in  favor  of  incorporation. 
The  difficulty  will  be  to  get  those  interested  to  see 
matters  in  that  light.  I  never  expected  the  pool 
would  be  a  success,  and  my  worst  forebodings 
have  been  verified.  It  is  too  amorphous  a  form 
of  union."  A  certain  melancholy  pleasure,  as  of 
the  prophet  verified,  pervaded  Mr.  Harding's 
words. 

'  That's  right,  men  have  got  to  be  tied  down 
33 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

to  a  thing  so  they  can't  get  out  of  it.  Otherwise 
—  well,  look  at  us  —  just  as  good  as  busted." 

"  We  surely  haven't  succeeded  in  restricting 
buying  or  selling  prices  or  in  regulating  the  out- 
put, as  we  planned." 

"That's  right!  Why,  let  me  tell  you  what 
Ryerson's  bookkeeper  told  me.  Ryerson  has 
been  delivering  pretty  nearly  a  third  more  than 
his  contracts  called  for!  The  transaction  stood 
all  right  on  the  books,  but  he  has  managed  in  this 
way  to  undersell  the  regular  price  all  winter." 

Mr.  Harding  knit  his  brows  as  Burnham  spoke, 
and  then  went  on  slowly : 

"  The  pool  has  all  the  bad  features  of  the  regu- 
larly incorporated  trust  and  none  of  the  good  ones. 
We  have  conspired  to  put  down  wages  and  buy- 
ing prices,  and  put  up  selling  prices.  But  there 
is  no  chance  for  the  ultimate  cheapening  of  the 
cost  of  production  by  a  common  management.  It 
has  no  advantage  as  a  fixed  institution,  but  it  is 
a  good  preparatory  school  for  the  trust,  and  I 
think  the  course  must  be  about  completed." 

Burnham  looked  at  his  companion  keenly. 

"  Did  you  think  so  far  ahead  as  that,  Hard- 
ing?" 

"  I  thought  it  altogether  possible  that  our 
friends  might  learn  the  advantages  of  union  even 

34 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

if  they  did  not  find  this  method  successful,"  Mr. 
Harding  answered  calmly. 

"  Oh,  you're  a  foxy  one.  When  are  you  going 
to  broach  the  new  scheme?  " 

"  We  must  not  hurry  the  matter  unduly,  but 
it  is  time  to  agitate  it  gently.  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  giving  a  dinner  where  we  can  talk  it  over 
a  little." 

"  I'm  with  you  there,  of  course,"  and  Burn- 
ham's  eyes  twinkled.  "  I'm  with  you  all  through. 
There's  money  in  the  scheme,  and  I  must  confess 
money  means  a  good  deal  to  me  just  now." 

"  There's  money  in  it  and  a  great  economic  gain 
also.  If  unprosperous  firms  can  be  made  flourish- 
ing and  the  price  to  consumers  decreased  at  the 
same  time,  there  is  a  double  gain,  such  as  seldom 
occurs."  Mr.  Harding  broke  off  abruptly, 
knowing  that  Burnham  would  sympathize  but 
little  with  what  was  to  him  the  most  alluring 
feature  of  the  whole  scheme.  In  a  moment's 
time  he  continued  briskly: 

"  If  we  say  then  a  dinner  a  week  from  tonight. 
I  will  see  that  the  invitations  are  sent  out  tomor- 
row." 

After  Burnham  had  gone,  Mr.  Harding  re- 
sumed his  seat  by  the  window  with  a  return  of 
his  customary  self-approval.  He  had  been  dis- 
couraged earlier  in  the  evening,  as  he  received 

35 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

one  more  proof  that  all  his  efforts  had  not  been 
able  to  reach  the  hearts  of  his  men.  The  affec- 
tion which  his  son  had  gained  apparently  with- 
out exertion,  his  own  painstaking  care  had  not 
been  able  to  secure.  He  had  not  been  satisfied 
to  control  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  his  men;  he 
wished  to  hold  their  hearts  as  well.  Yet,  disap- 
pointed in  this,  he  contented  himself  with  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  been  master. 

He  knew  triumph  in  the  midst  of  defeat.  The 
last  conflict  to  be  feared,  he  told  himself  with 
sanguine  confidence,  was  over.  Daylight  would 
put  a  different  face  on  the  matter.  He  had  little 
fear  that  the  non-union  workers  would  be  at- 
tacked under  the  dictates  of  sunshine  and  cooler 
reason.  The  long  strike  was  practically  at  an 
end.  The  men  would  gradually  drift  back  when 
they  saw  that  the  mills  could  be  run  without 
them.  The  delay  must  be  made  up,  extra  hands 
would  be  needed,  and  there  would  be  room  for 
all.  The  scab  labor  would  gradually  float  off 
in  the  fashion  of  such  a  shifting  population,  leav- 
ing Underhill  in  its  normal  condition  again.  The 
strike  was  almost  over,  and  the  employer  was 
once  more  a  victor.  Moreover,  there  hovered 
in  his  mind  gigantic,  roseate  visions  of  a  future 
which  he  should  control.  It  was  with  triumphant 

36 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

tread  and  bearing  that  he  at  last  took  his  way 
upstairs. 

In  a  pause  of  the  conversation  next  morning 
Mr.  Harding  said : 

"  By  the  way,  Theodore,  can  you  write  some 
notes  for  me  after  breakfast?  " 

"  How  soon  do  you  want  them  ?  I  have  a 
date  with  Rubinovitch  at  nine." 

"  Never  mind,  then.  I  wanted  them  to  get 
into  the  morning's  mail.  But  I  can  do  them 
myself."  Mr.  Harding  spoke  resignedly. 

"  If  I  could  be  of  any  assistance,  Mr.  Hard-- 
ing," Reid  said  eagerly,  "  I  shall  have  an  idle 
hour  after  breakfast." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Reid.  It  would  be  a  great 
favor.  They  are  only  dinner  invitations." 

When  later  Reid  handed  Mr.  Harding  the  pile 
of  notes,  written  in  his  neat  upright  hand,  the 
latter  looked  at  them  critically. 

"  It  has  been  my  dream  to  have  a  private  sec- 
retary who  wrote  a  hand  like  that,"  he  said  half- 
jestingly. 

Reid  smiled  and  lingered  with  one  of  the  let- 
ters in  his  hand. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  William  P. 
Ordway?"  he  said.  "I  knew  a  man  of  that 
name  once  in  St.  Louis.  It  can  hardly  be  the 
same  one,  I  suppose.  He  was  foreman  in  a  mill." 

37 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Possibly,  Mr.  Ordway  came  up  from  the 
ranks,  I  believe.  He  is  a  short,  stout  man  with 
red  hair,"  Mr.  Harding  answered. 

"  That  answers  his  description  well  enough. 
I  must  make  sure.  They  were  very  kind  to  me 
then." 


CHAPTER  V 

During  the  week  which  Reid  spent  with  Theo- 
dore Harding  he  saw  more  of  the  father  than  of 
the  son.  Theodore  was  closeted  all  day  long 
with  one  working  man  or  another,  and  seemed  to 
be  the  moving  spirit  in  all  measures  leading  to  a 
settlement  of  the  strike.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Hard- 
ing and  Reid  spent  idle  hours  on  the  veranda, 
growing  more  and  more  intimate  as  their  knowl- 
edge of  each  other's  tastes  deepened. 

Theodore  seldom  joined  in  these  long  conver- 
sations; he  sat  silent  when  present,  stroking  his 
puppy's  ears,  or  reading  his  favorite  sporting 
magazine  in  the  library.  Sometimes  he  would 
retreat  to  the  hammock  in  the  pines  and  there 
pick  his  banjo  deftly,  with  the  ruddy  setter-pup 
as  sole  listener.  He  seemed  wholly  unconscious 
of  the  growing  affection  between  his  father  and 
his  friend. 

Reid's  admiration  for  Mr.  Harding  made  him 

39 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

loth  to  decline  when  the  latter  offered  him  a  posi- 
tion as  his  secretary.  Journalism  was  still  his 
chosen  field  of  labor,  though  it  had  shown  him 
little  kindness;  but  this  offer  promised  work  not 
uncongenial,  abundant  leisure,  and  an  income 
ample  for  one.  He  balanced  the  question  ac- 
cording to  his  custom,  but  had  arrived  at  a 
fixed  decision  one  evening  a  week  later  when  he 
went  down  to  the  Ordway's  to  supper. 

He  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Ordway  nor  her  daugh- 
ter before,  but  he  found  the  older  woman  sitting 
alone  on  her  tiny,  vine-covered  porch  to  greet 
him.  Presently  a  tall,  erect  girl  came  up  the 
path,  holding  a  light  paddle  in  her  brown  hand. 
Her  mass  of  reddish  hair  was  uncovered  and  her 
regular  features  and  square,  decided  chin  were 
burned  by  the  warm  sun  of  the  river. 

"  There  comes  Faithy,"  said  Mrs.  Ordway. 
"  She's  changed,  ain't  she,  since  you  see  her 
last?  Why,  she  must  have  been  a  little  girl 
then  — 'bout  fourteen  or  so.  She's  most  twenty- 
one  now  —  twenty-one  the  fifteenth  of  June." 

Reid  had  already  risen. 

"  Is  this  really  you,  Faith?  "  he  said.  "  I  can 
hardly  believe  it  is  the  little  girl  I  used  to 
know." 

Faith  gave  him  her  hand  and  looked  at  him 
with  the  same  deep-blue  eyes  which  he  remem- 

40 


bered  so  well.  The  eyes,  the  hair  straight  and 
fine  as  thistle-down,  the  resolute  chin,  were  those 
of  the  Faith  he  had  known  as  a  little  girl.  Other- 
wise she  was  strangely  altered.  He  stood 
speechless,  with  some  constraint  before  the  fa- 
miliar searching  gaze.  Neither  spoke  for  a  mo- 
ment. Mrs.  Ordway  broke  the  awkward  silence. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  to  Mr.  Reid,  Faithy  ? 
You  ain't  polite." 

Faith  laughed  with  a  wholesome,  cordial  note 
that  broke  the  pause  pleasantly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  mother.  Mr. 
Reid  and  I  have  got  to  start  over  again.  We've 
both  grown  up." 

"  One  of  us  has,  at  any  rate,"  Reid  added. 
"  I  believe  I  was  expecting  to  find  you  fifteen  or 
sixteen.  And  I  suppose  I  can't  call  her  Faith 
any  more, —  can  I,  Mrs.  Ordway?" 

"Nonsense!  Of  course  you  can.  'Twould 
sound  silly  enough  to  hear  you  callin'  her  Miss 
Ordway,"  and  Mrs.  Ordway  beamed  with  good 
fellowship. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to,  if  your  mother  says  I 
may.  I'm  too  old  a  dog  to  learn  new  tricks." 

"  Well  now !  Mr.  Reid,  I  know  how  old  you 
are.  You're  only  twenty-nine.  You  was  twen- 
ty-two when  you  boarded  with  us  an'  taught  m 
the  high-school,  wasn't  you  ?  " 

41 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Yes,  it  was  between  my  Freshman  and 
Sophomore  years  at  college.  I  was  out  two 
years." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  since  you  grad- 
uated, Mr.  Reid  ?  "  Faith  asked. 

"  I  have  been  on  different  newspapers  ever 
since.  I  came  here  for  the  Boston  '  Observer.' ' 

"  And  do  you  like  journalism?  "  queried  Faith. 
The  talk  flowed  a  trifle  stiffly  at  first. 

"  Yes,  it's  the  only  thing  I  would  care  to  think 
of  for  steady  work  —  as  a  profession,  I  mean. 
But  a  reporter's  life  is  a  hard  one  and  the  pay  is 
not  over  good.  I'm  thinking  of  giving  it  up  for 
awhile  and  going  into  business.  Then  when  I 
get  a  tiny  sum  ahead  — " 

"  It  seems  a  pity.  That  was  what  you  always 
meant  to  do.  You  used  to  say  you  were  going 
to  be  editor  of  one  of  the  big  magazines,"  said 
Faith  thoughtfully. 

"  My  ambitions  don't  soar  as  high  as  that 
nowadays.  The  world  takes  a  good  deal  of  that 
out  of  one."  Reid  spoke  a  trifle  sadly. 

"  Yes,  more's  the  pity.  The  worst  of  growing 
old  is  that  one  loses  one's  ambition."  Faith's 
tones  were  brisk,  with  nothing  of  disappointment 
about  them. 

"  You  can't  know  much  about  that  personal- 
ly," Reid  smiled  indulgently. 

42 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Oh,  but  I  do.  I've  lost  all  the  ambitions  I 
had.  I  wanted  to  be  a  nurse.  I  should  have 
made  a  good  one  —  perfectly  well  and  strong, 
and  with  the  knack;  but  father  and  mother 
couldn't  spare  me,  and  now  I  don't  care."  She 
smiled  lovingly  at  her  mother  as  she  spoke. 

"  Nursing  must  be  hard  and  very  disagreeable. 
You  wouldn't  want  to  if  you  knew  more  about 
it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should.  I  was  in  a  hospital  three 
months.  They  thought  I  wouldn't  like  it,  and 
so  they  let  me  go  on  probation.  But  I  didn't  get 
a  bit  tired  of  it;  it  was  fascinating.  But  this 
is  better." 

Faith  sat  on  the  upper  step  of  the  veranda, 
turning  the  paddle  lightly  in  her  strong,  brown 
hands.  Reid  looked  down  at  the  smoothly  part- 
ed hair  and  the  well-set  head,  as  he  leaned  against 
the  pillar  beside  her.  He  was  getting  his  mind 
adjusted  to  the  change  in  his  pet  and  playmate. 
She  had  been  a  dumpy,  awkward  little  girl, 
who  bore  her  cross  of  red  hair  with  a 
stoical  defiance.  Her  obvious  devotion  had 
pleased  and  flattered  Reid,  and  he  made 
much  of  her,  as  he  would  otherwise  hardly  have" 
done  to  the  somewhat  unattractive  child.  He 
had  grown  very  fond  of  her,  with  a  certain  reflect- 
ed affection  born  of  her  love  for  him.  He  re- 

43 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

membered  the  look  in  her  eyes  when  he  had  bid- 
den her  good-bye  —  a  look  older  than  the  child's 
real  age  by  many  years.  He  wondered,  and  was 
ashamed  of  the  thought,  if  he  had  still  the  power 
to  call  up  such  an  expression. 

Mrs.  Ordway's  next  remark  chimed  in  strange- 
ly with  his  thought. 

"  We  all  used  to  think  a  sight  of  you,  Mr. 
Reid,  an'  we  do  now,  for  that  matter.  But  I 
guess  there  didn't  either  of  us  older  folks  think 
so  much  of  you  as  Faithy  did.  She's  always 
kept  wondering  where  you  was  and  why  you 
didn't  write." 

Reid  was  troubled  at  the  thought  that  he  had 
been  unmindful  of  these  generous  friends,  and 
answered  penitently: 

"  It  was  very  ungrateful  of  me  to  seem  to  for- 
get your  kindness  in  that  way.  Believe  me,  it 
was  only  in  the  seeming;  I  would  have  written 
if  I  had  thought  you  cared  particularly.  But 
there  wasn't  anything  of  importance  to  write 
about,  and  I  put  it  off  from  week  to  week." 

"Yes,  I  kep'  tellin'  father  an'  Faithy  'twas 
that  way.  I'm  a  poor  hand  to  write  myself  an' 
I  know  how  it  is." 

A  half  hour  later  Mrs.  Ordway  beamed  from 
behind  the  coffee-pot  over  the  generously 
spread  table.  It  was  an  admirable  supper,  from 

44 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

her  standpoint  or  any  other,  and  she  naturally 
contrasted  the  days  of  plenty  with  the  days  of 
dearth.  Something  of  this  came  to  her  lips. 

"  This  ain't  much  like  the  times,  Mr.  Reid, 
when  you  used  to  board  with  us  and  we  had  to 
do  most  anyway  to  make  things  come  together." 

"  I  didn't  see  much  of  that  side  of  the  matter, 
Mrs.  Ordway.  There  always  seemed  to  be 
enough." 

"  Well,  you  never  knew  how  much  your  board 
money  meant  to  us.  But  we've  pulled  through 
that  now.  I  tell  father  he'll  be  building  a  man- 
sion up  on  the  hill  pretty  soon,  like  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's.  I  expect  that's  pretty  fine,  now,  isn't  it? '' 

"  It  is  certainly  a  beautiful  house,  but  after 
all  comfortable  rather  than  fine,"  Reid  answered 
absently. 

"  I  never  thought  I  should  feel  at  home  in 
such  a  big  house,  an'  'twould  seem  kind  of  lone- 
some up  on  the  hill,"  Mrs.  Ordway  went  on 
comfortably.  "  I've  lived  right  down  amongst 
folks  ever  sence  I  was  married,  and  I  don't  s'pose 
I'd  ever  feel  satisfied  not  to  see  something  goin' 
on.  I  guess  this  house  suits  me  well  enough. 
It's  big  enough  for  us,  an'  I  do'  know's  I  want 
to  move,  even  if  we  do  all  git  rich  from  bein' 
mixed  up  with  the  big  bugs." 

:<  You   better   not   count   too   much   on   that, 

45 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

mother,"  said  Mr.  Ordway,  breaking  his  habit- 
ual silence.  "It's  full  as  likely  to  work  the  other 
way.  I  don't  take  much  stock  in  these  new-fan- 
gled schemes  for  makin'  money." 

"  I  judge  nevertheless  that  things  are  pretty 
hard  for  the  producer,  just  now?  "  Reid  queried. 

"  I  ain't  complaining.  It  don't  look  as  if  I 
was  havin'  hard  times,  does  it?"  and  he  looked 
complacently  about  him. 

"  No,  it  certainly  doesn't ;  but  Mr.  Harding 
spoke  as  if  many  of  the  manufacturers  felt  differ- 
ently." 

"  Mr.  Harding !  "  grunted  Ordway,  "  I  don't 
take  much  stock  in  your  Mr.  Harding." 

"Why  not,  Mr.  Ordway?"  asked  Reid  puz- 
zled. So  far  as  he  had  seen  Mr.  Harding  seem- 
ed to  inspire  profound  respect  if  not  love. 

"  Oh,  he's  too  slick,  his  hands  are  too  white. 
He  talks  too  much." 

"  It  isn't  exactly  fair,  is  it,  father,  to  be  down 
on  him  for  those  things  ?  "  asked  Faith  quietly. 

"  Of  course  'taint,  Faithy.  But  it's  one  of 
those  things  you  can't  help.  I  don't  like  him 
an'  I  don't  trust  him." 

"  I  was  real  proud  of  father  being  invited  up 
there  to  dinner,  but  I  don't  think  it  pleased  him  a 
mite,"  Mrs.  Ordway  interpolated.  "  Now  I 

46 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

think  Mr.  Harding  is  as  well-appearing  a  man 
as  you  need  ask  to  see  anywheres." 

"Appears  too  well;  just  what  I  said,"  came 
Mr.  Ordway's  laconic  comment. 

'  Then  you  don't  favor  the  agreement,  pool, 
whatever  you  call  it?"  said  Reid,  turning  the 
talk  upon  less  personal  matters. 

"  I  did  last  night, —  at  any  rate  I  didn't  say 
anything  against  it.  I  suppose  I  was  so  stuffed 
with  wine  and  good  things  that  I  felt  good.  At 
any  rate  I  lost  my  sense." 

"Did  they  have  wine,  father?"  queried  Mrs. 
Ordway  in  awe-struck  tones.  To  her  mind  spir- 
ituous liquors  were  things  to  be  used  only  in  case 
of  dire  illness  and  then  with  fear  and  trembling. 

"  Yes,  all  sorts.  An'  we  all  drank  it,  an'  got 
so  meller  and  sociable  that  we  agreed  to  anything 
Albion  Harding  said." 

"  P'raps  that's  what  he  done  it  for,"  said  Mrs. 
Ordway  with  cunning. 

"  P'raps  'twas,"  her  husband  answered  drily. 

"  Just  what  do  you  object  to  in  the  scheme, 
Mr.  Ordway  ?  "  Reid  asked  persistently,  return- 
ing to  the  attack.  This  blunt,  unschooled  view- 
point interested  the  artistic  side  of  his  nature. 

Mr.  Ordway  was  in  no  way  reticent  in  regard 
to  his  opinion.  He  had  cast  off  his  customary 
taciturnity.  It  seemed  that  he  had  been  brood- 

47 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ing  over  the  events  of  the  evening  before 
throughout  the  day,  so  that  it  was  a  relief  to  him 
to  speak.  He  went  on  judicially: 

"  Wai,  I'll  tell  you  what,  I  ain't  never  approved 
of  the  pool.  I'm  too  old-fashioned,  I  guess, — 
at  any  rate,  the  old-fashioned  ways  of  doing 
things  are  good  enough  for  me.  We  ain't  be'n 
runnin'  things  on  the  square  for  the  last  two 
years.  I  see  it  an'  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  quit. 
But  when  it  comes  to  all  this  talk  they's  be'n  late- 
ly, it's  too  much  for  me.  It's  bein'  bossed  that 
goes  against  me  as  much  as  anythin'." 

"  But  I  don't  see  that  you  are  being  bossed. 
Isn't  it  the  vote  of  the  majority  that  decides  the 
question?"  Reid  persisted. 

"  It  looks  so  from  outside,  but  I  tell  you  Al- 
bion Harding's  the  majority.  He  owns  three 
mills  outright,  and  nobody  knows  how  many 
more  so  far's  the  greater  part  of  the  interest  is 
concerned.  At  any  rate,  some  of  those  men 
don't  dare  say  their  souls  are  their  own  when  he 
speaks." 

'*  The  authority  might  be  in  worse  hands,  at 
any  rate.  Mr.  Harding  is  keen  and  level-head- 
ed, and  more  than  that  he  means  well ;  and  I  have 
no  doubt  is  perfectly  sincere  in  thinking  that  the 
manufacturer  needs  protection."  Reid  thorough- 
ly believed  with  Mr.  Harding,  and  was  glad  that 

48 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

he  could  support  his  future  employer  with  per- 
fect sincerity. 

"  All  that  may  be,"  Ordway  rejoined  stub- 
bornly. "  It  don't  do  a  mite  of  good  to  argue 
with  me.  I  know  a  scheme  to  gouge  fortunes 
out  of  poor,  plain  people  as  far  as  I  can  see  it. 
I've  been  a  poor  man  myself  all  my  life  and  I've 
seen  how  'tis.  The  more  a  man  has  the  more 
he  wants,  and  the  harder  he's  goin'  to  work  to 
get  it." 

"  I  don't  think  you're  just  to  Mr.  Harding, 
father,"  Mrs.  Ordway  put  in  pacifically.  "  I'm 
sure  he's  a  good  man.  Look  how  generous  he 
is.  He's  treasurer  of  the  missionary  society, 
busy  as  he  is,  an'  don't  take  a  cent  of  pay;  an' 
he  gives  money  everywhere.  Everybody  that's 
hard-up  or  wants  money  for  anything  special 
goes  to  him.  An'  if  you'd  only  go  to  prayer- 
meetin'  Friday  nights  you'd  hear  what  beautiful 
things  he  says.  He's  better  than  the  minister 
any  day." 

"  It's  easy  enough  to  say  beautiful  things, — 
at  least  it  is  for  him.  'Twouldn't  be  for  me. 
And  as  for  the  missions,  he's  got  plenty  of 
money, —  what  does  that  amount  to  ?  Oh,  yes, 
he  talks  fair  enough,  but  he  don't  keep  me  from 
seein'  that  this  is  a  scheme  for  takin'  money  away 

49 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

from  the  poor  people  an'  givin'  it  to  the  rich. 
It's  always  the  way." 

He  paused  and  a  silence  followed  which  was 
broken  by  Mr.  Ordway  himself. 

"  There's  one  thing  about  it,"  he  said  reluc- 
tantly. "  There's  goin'  to  be  more  chance  for 
savin'  in  a  stronger  organization  than  there's  b'en 
in  the  pool.  There's  goin'  to  be  more  of  a  show 
for  the  gains  bein'  fair  ones." 

'  Then  you  think  a  stronger  organization 
would  be  less  objectionable  after  all?"  Reid 
asked  a  little  eagerly. 

"  I  s'pose  'twould,  but  I  ain't  in  favor  of  it, 
by  any  means.  I  want  to  go  my  own  way  jest 
as  I  always  did,  an'  I  never  wanted  to  do  any- 
thing else.  Why  I  went  an'  agreed  to  anything 
of  the  sort  I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  do  know,  too, 
d  —  n  it !  I  was  a  silly  fool !  I  was  flattered 
at  settin'  there  in  Albion  Harding's  big  dinin' 
room,  an'  drinkin'  his  wine, —  me  that  had  eat 
my  dinner  out  of  a  tin  pail  in  his  father's  mill 
for  years.  He  turned  my  head  with  his  '  Mr. 
Ordway  '  this  an'  his  '  Mr.  Ordway '  that." 

"  Father,  I'm  ashamed  of  you !  "  Mrs.  Ord- 
way interrupted  as  soon  as  she  could  make  her- 
self heard  through  this  outburst.  "  Do  you  know 
what  you  said?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  to,  Matty,"  Mr.  Ordway  re- 
50 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

plied  apologetically.  "  But  I  do  git  so  riled 
when  I  think  what  I've  done.  Mebbe  if  I'd  held 
out,  some  of  the  rest  might  have.  If  somebody 
had  only  made  them  see  the  other  side !  I  don't 
s'pose  I  could  have  made  plain  how  I  felt  about 
it,  but  I  should  feel  better  if  I  had  tried." 

"  Of  course  I  haven't  thought  over  the  matter 
as  you  have,  but  I  have  a  feeling  that  you  are 
looking  on  the  dark  side  altogether  too  much, 
Mr.  Ordway,"  Reid  put  in  in  reassuring  tones. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is  I  don't  have  a  mite  of  con- 
fidence in  Mr.  Harding.  Mebbe  he  did  mean 
some  of  the  things  he  said  when  he  said  'em; 
but  I  tell  you  he's  all  taken  up  seein'  what  he 
can  do.  It's  more  for  the  sake  of  havin'  some- 
thin'  to  run  an'  manage,  than  anythin'  else.  I've 
known  him  in  a  sort  of  way  ever  sense  he  come 
home  from  foreign  parts  an'  took  the  business 
after  his  father  died;  an'  I  know  it's  the  breath 
of  his  life  to  manage  things.  He's  kep'  pretty 
straight  an'  clean  for  a  man  mixed  up  in  so  many 
things;  I  ain't  never  heard  a  word  said  against 
his  private  life.  But  you  can't  always  tell, — 
sometimes  it's  the  men  like  that  that  goes  to 
smash  the  hardest.  All  I  have  to  say  is  that  Al- 
bion Harding  ain't  the  kind  of  man  I'd  like  to 
trust  my  happiness  and  my  fortunes  to.  Too 
much  power  ain't  good  for  some  men.  I've 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

thought  sometimes  that  if  Caesar  and  Napoleon 
and  the  fellers  we  read  about  in  the  history 
hadn't  had  any  power  they'd  have  been  better 
men, —  if  they'd  just  stayed  at  home,  and  plowed 
an'  things." 

William  Ordway  rose  abruptly  from  the  table 
and  left  the  room,  only  to  pace  the  piazza  rest- 
lessly. Reid  knew  that  some  unusual  excite- 
ment possessed  the  plain  man.  He  was  a  rare 
speaker,  and  then  only  in  monosyllables  and  in 
reply  to  questions.  This  evening,  however,  he 
had  discoursed  at  length  and  with  a  certain  rude 
eloquence  and  effectiveness  which  surprised  at 
least  one  of  his  auditors.  He  had  evidently  been 
brooding  over  the  matter  all  day,  and  could  no 
longer  restrain  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  sym- 
pathetic audience. 

As  his  steps  echoed  sharply  on  the  veranda, 
Mrs.  Ordway  undertook  to  apologize. 

"  I'm  sure  Mr.  Harding's  a  fine  man,  Mr. 
Reid,  an'  I  don't  want  you  should  think  father 
meant  half  what  he  said.  It  wasn't  very  polite 
of  him  to  speak  so  about  a  friend  of  yours  any- 
way; but  he's  all  wrought  up  over  it  ever  since 
last  night.  He  didn't  sleep  hardly  a  wink. 
'Twas  between  twelve  and  one  when  he  got 
home,  an'  then  he  turned  and  twisted  till  most 
mornin'.  He  said  he  guessed  'twas  the  coffee, — 

52 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

'twas  awful  strong  and  black  an'  there  wasn't 
any  milk  to  put  in  it.  I  s'pose  the  girl  forgot  it, 
Mrs.  Harding  not  bein'  there,  an'  she  havin' 
everything  to  tend  to  herself;  but  father  said 
Mr.  Harding  didn't  say  a  word,  an'  drank  it 
down  as  if  'twas  the  way  he  wanted  it.  I 
thought  'twas  real  considerate  of  him  not  to 
make  a  fuss  about  it  an'  hurt  her  feelin's.  But 
anyway,  it  kep'  father  awake  an'  helped  git 
him  all  wrought  up." 

'  The  factory  means  a  great  deal  to  father," 
Faith  added  at  the  end  of  her  mother's  mono- 
logue. "  He  always  worked  there  until  we  went 
away  from  here.  He  was  there  when  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's  father  owned  it.  His  life  has  gone  into  it 
as  much  as  if  he  had  always  owned  it  himself." 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  first  thing  he  done  when 
he  come  into  that  money.  He  wrote  back  here 
to  Underhill  to  see  if  he  could  buy  the  factory," 
Mrs.  Ordway  added. 

'  Then  you  had  a  sudden  stroke  of  luck,  Mrs. 
Ordway?" 

"  Bless  you,  yes !  We  never  could  have  scraped 
together  so  much.  You  see  father  had  a 
brother,  a  sort  of  rovin'  critter,  an'  he  died  an' 
left  him  this  piece  of  kind  of  waste  land.  It 
didn't  appear  to  be  wuth  much  then;  but  they 
discovered  oil  on  it,  an'  he  sold  it  for  a  good 

53 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

price.  It  don't  seem  so  much  now  as  it  did  then, 
I  guess,  an'  'twouldn't  be  much  for  some  folks  — 
but  we're  satisfied." 

"  It  was  the  dearest  thing  —  the  way  father 
took  it" — said  Faith  with  a  touch  of  strong 
feeling  in  her  voice.  "  After  we  had  moved 
here  he  used  to  go  down  to  the  mill  every  night 
to  see  if  it  was  all  right,  just  as  if  it  had  been 
alive.  And  when  he  came  back  he  always  said, 
*  Yes,  'twas  the  only  thing  that  kept  my  spirits 
up  all  through  that  time, —  saying  to  myself, 
"  I'll  be  master  here  some  day."  It's  nice  to 
see  a  man  get  what  he  wants  most  once  in  a 
while." 

Just  then  Mr.  Ordway  entered  the  dining- 
room,  where  the  three  still  lingered  about  the 
table. 

"  See  here,  Reid,"  he  said,  concisely,  "  I've 
said  a  lot  of  things  to  you  that  you  can  tell  Mr. 
Harding  or  not  just  as  you  please.  They're  no 
more  than  I  should  be  willing  to  say  to  him.  I 
expect  I  shall,  some  time.  There's  another 
thing  that  I  expect  to  tell  him  before  long;  and 
that  is  that  I  shan't  stay  in  his  pool,  combine, 
or  whatever  he  calls  it,  another  week.  But  I 
ain't  come  to  it  yet.  I  want  to  think  about  it 
a  little  more.  It  ain't  all  the  moral  side  of  it,  I 
don't  pretend,  though  I've  always  been  on  the 

54 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

square,  an'  it's  gittin'  most  too  late  to  change; 
but  I  can't  stand  bein'  dictated  to,  an'  I  won't, 
by  Albion  Harding  or  anybody  else." 


55 


CHAPTER  VI 

As  the  summer  passed,  Mr.  Harding,  deep  in 
business  of  a  scope  far  wider  than  any  one  knew, 
grew  to  depend  on  Reid  at  every  turn.  He  often 
contrasted  Theodore's  straggling  boyish  hand, 
his  unreliable  spelling,  his  faulty  rhetoric,  with 
Reid's  delicate  precision ;  and  compared  his  son's 
blunt  statements  with  Reid's  tactful  diplomacy. 
The  contrast  could  not  fail  to  be  hurtful  to  Theo- 
dore, even  though  his  faults  in  the  clerical  line 
were  more  than  counterbalanced  by  his  pains- 
taking attention  to  trivial  details,  and  his  in- 
fluence with  the  men.  Theodore  had  insisted 
on  learning  the  business  from  the  start.  He  had 
worked  faithfully  in  the  mills  for  months,  gain- 
ing a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  processes,  but  in  a 
subtle  way  he  had  still  further  lowered  his  status 
with  his  father,  who  never  relished  the  sight  of 
his  son  in  overalls  and  jumper.  It  argued,  in 
Mr.  Harding's  mind,  some  lack  of  breeding  that 

56 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

his  son  should  meet  on  terms  of  equality  with 
his  own  workmen. 

In  Reid,  however,  Mr.  Harding  found  a  most 
congenial  companion.  He  grew  to  value  the 
young  man's  opinions,  especially  on  theoretical 
matters,  and  discussed  such  topics  freely  with 
him.  So  one  morning  as  they  sat  at  work  Mr. 
Harding  said  abruptly: 

"  What  do  you  think  about  this  pooling  busi- 
ness, Mr.  Reid?  You  have  studied  political 
economy,  and  so  must  have  struck  this  phase  of 
the  matter  in  college.  There  weren't  such 
things  as  pools  to  consider  in  my  day." 

Reid  was  a  little  surprised  at  this  open  admis- 
sion of  a  limitation,  but  answered  after  a  slight 
pause : 

"  Frankly,  Mr.  Harding,  I  don't  believe  in 
pools.  They  have  all  the  bad  features  of  the 
regular  combine  and  none  of  the  good  ones." 

"  Such  as  the  saving  by  combined  manage- 
ment, etc.  ? "  Mr.  Harding  queried,  though  he 
knew  well  enough  Reid's  meaning. 

"  Yes,  just  that.  Then  they  are  underhanded 
in  their  very  essence  and  so  are  absolutely  unre- 
strained." 

"  In  point  of  fact  they  are  illegal,  I  suppose," 
Mr.  Harding  continued,  thoughtfully. 

Theodore,  who  had  entered  quietly  at  the  be- 
57 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ginning  of  the  conversation,  half-swung  in  his 
chair  and  spoke  impulsively: 

"  Why  don't  you  drop  the  business  altogether, 
father?  They're  more  harm  than  good  —  com- 
bines of  any  sort." 

"  You  cannot  dismiss  them  carelessly  like  that, 
Theodore.  You  are  ignoring  the  whole  trend 
of  modern  business.  They  demand  attention." 
Mr.  Harding's  tone  was  a  little  ruffled. 

"  I  suppose  I'm  old-fashioned,  but  it  seems  to 
me  there's  nothing  like  good,  brisk  competition 
for  working  things  out,"  Theodore  answered. 
'  Competition  is  the  soul  of  trade/  you  know." 

"  That  is  so  old  a  proverb  it  may  have  well 
become  obsolete.  I  should  amend  it  to  read 
'  Combination  is  the  soul  of  trade,'  "  Mr.  Harding 
answered  with  dignity. 

"  Then  trade  hasn't  much  of  a  soul,"  Theo- 
dore retorted. 

Reid  laughed. 

"  There's  a  great  fad  nowadays  for  talking  of 
corporate  greed,  but  there's  just  as  much  real 
avarice  outside  the  corporations  as  in  them,  Ted- 
dy; you  get  a  little  more  lime-light  on  it  in  the 
mass,  that's  all." 

"  Competition  has  some  charges  against  it, 
Theodore,"  Mr.  Harding  continued  earnestly. 
"  Prices  fluctuate  and  upset  the  stock  market 

58 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

just  the  same  under  a  competitive  regime, 
and  the  small  producer  now  and  then  gets 
wrecked  without  the  aid  of  the  combine.  In 
fact,  the  trust  does  away  in  a  measure  with  these 
things." 

"  Yes,  by  steadying  prices  away  up  above  nor- 
mal, and,  wrecking  the  small  producer  itself." 

"  You  would  have  hard  work  to  prove  these 
assertions,  Teddy,"  said  Reid.  "  They  are 
every-day  talk,  I  know,  but  the  proof  lies  all  the 
other  way.  I  can  prove  to  you  with  figures, 
this  minute,  that  the.  Standard  Oil  Company  has 
steadily  lowered  the  selling  price  of  oil  for  the 
last  fifteen  years." 

"  You  can-  prove  that  prices  have  fallen,  but 
you  can't  prove  that  they  have  fallen  as  much 
as  they  would  have  done  without  combination, 
and  can  you  prove  that  the  quality  of  the  oil 
hasn't  grown  poorer  ? "  Theodore  retorted, 
warmly. 

'  The  first  doesn't  admit  of  proof,  of  course. 
They  meet  the  second  charge  satisfactorily  by 
saying  that  they  haven't  learned  yet  how  to  re- 
fine the  Ohio  oil." 

"  Shucks !  "  said  Theodore,  inelegantly. 

"  Mind,  Mr.  Reid  and  I  are  not  trying  to  con- 
tend that  the  charges  brought  against  the  trust 
have  not  almost  all  some  foundation  in  fact." 

59 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Mr.  Harding  spoke  earnestly  and  with  great 
emphasis.  His  project  had  come  to  be  very  dear 
to  him.  "  The  point  I  make  is  that  they  are  not 
necessary  features  of  combination.  Private 
firms,  too,  have  debased  the  product,  ruined  com- 
petitors, lowered  wages.  All  I  claim  is  that  the 
essential  features  of  trusts  are  all  for  the  legiti- 
mate furtherance  of  trade." 

"  Then  all  I've  got  to  say  is  that  our  union  — 
whatever  you  call  it  —  isn't  a  trust,"  Theodore 
retorted. 

"  It  never  claimed  to  be.  Mr.  Reid  and  I 
were  saying  that  it  has  the  evil  features  of  the 
trust  and  none  of  the  good  ones." 

"  Then  I  move  we  drop  it,  father,"  Theodore 
reiterated,  eagerly.  "  I've  been  wanting  to  say 
this  for  a  long  time,  and  have  been  afraid  it 
would  annoy  you.  But  I  can't  stand  this  busi- 
ness. It's  killing  my  self-respect." 

"  You  look  at  the  matter  from  too  emotional 
a  standpoint,  Theodore,"  his  father  answered. 
His  son's  feeling,  the  energy  of  his  criticism,  both 
annoyed  Mr.  Harding;  the  fact  that  such  a  dis- 
play of  emotion  was  rare  only  emphasized  the 
implied  criticism. 

Theodore  flushed  hotly  as  he  answered  his 
father's  cnarge. 

60 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  don't  think  you  arp  quite  fair  to  me,  father. 
It  is  a  serious  matter  to  me,"  he  replied. 

"  I  don't  think  I  fail  to  recognize  its  impor- 
tance, but  I  regard  it  from  a  different  point  of 
view.  I  maintain  that  we  must  find  some  sub- 
stitute for  the  pool.  Your  suggestion  that  we 
give  up  the  matter  does  not  face  the  difficulty." 

"  I  don't  see  any  difficulty.  We  were  getting 
on  well  enough  as  we  were.  We  had  all  the 
money  we  needed." 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  our  interests  in  this  mat- 
ter. We  are  all  right.  But  the  other  manufac- 
turers —  Mr.  Burnham  says  — " 

"  Don't  believe  anything  that  Roger  Burnham 
says.  He  is  absolutely  unreliable,"  Theodore 
said,  emphatically. 

"  I  must  judge  of  that  for  myself." 

"  But  do  you  know,  father,  what  people  in 
general  think  of  Roger  Burnham?  He  is  abso- 
lutely unscrupulous  in  his  business  methods,  and 
a  confirmed  gambler,"  the  younger  man  per- 
sisted. 

"  Do  you  know  these  things  ?  "  Mr.  Harding 
queried  sharply. 

"  Of  course  not  by  experience."  Theodore's 
tones  showed  that  he  recognized  the  weakness 
of  his  self- justification.  "  But  everybody  says 
so." 

61 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Such  testimony  isn't  to  be  relied  on  in  the 
least,"  Mr.  Harding  replied  serenely.  "  I  find 
Mr.  Burnham  a  man  of  keen  business  judgment 
and  considerable  insight.  Further  than  that  I  do 
not  care  to  go.  I  have  no  intention  of  making 
him  my  familiar  friend." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  have  his  name  mixed  up 
with  yours  in  any  enterprise,  that's  all,"  Theo- 
dore reiterated. 

"  I  fancy  mine  will  stand  the  strain,"  and  Mr. 
Harding  smiled  in  genuine  amusement.  "  The 
man  is  a  good  agent  if  well  controlled.  But  in 
regard  to  this  question  of  dropping  the  pool,  we 
may  as  well  talk  it  out  once  for  all,  my  son. 
Do  you  not  think  the  plan  which  we  discussed 
ineffectually  last  spring,  for  changing  our  infor- 
mal agreement  into  an  incorporated  combination, 
solves  the  difficulty  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  makes  it  much  better," 
Theodore  retorted  doggedly.  "  It's  just  here, 
father.  Trusts  might  do  all  these  good  things 
that  you  have  mentioned,  but  they  don't." 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  state  clearly,  Theo- 
dore, your  objection  to  combines?  "  Mr.  Harding 
said  with  the  air  of  propounding  a  puzzle. 

"  I  think  the  amount  of  power  they  have  is 
dangerous.  There's  the  matter  in  a  nutshell," 
Theodore  answered  promptly.  *  There  aren't 

62 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

many  men  who  can  stand  the  chance  it  gives  for 
the  increase  of  money  and  power.  Look  into 
the  history  of  almost  any  trust.  You'll  find  it 
full  of  disgraceful  things.  I'll  leave  it  to  you, 
Reid,  if  it  isn't  so." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  something  in  what  you 
say,"  Reid  answered  slowly.  "  But,  as  your 
father  says,  these  things  are  not  an  essential  part 
of  the  combine;  a  trust  could  be  conducted  suc- 
cessfully without  them.  Its  prosperity  wouldn't 
be  so  rapid  or  so  dazzling,  but  it  would  be  even 
more  sure  in  the  end  —  that  is,  the  trust  in  the 
abstract,  in  the  ideal." 

"  There  isn't  any  such  thing  —  and  if  there 
is  it  isn't  worth  considering.  We  have  to  think 
of  the  practical  workings,"  Theodore  answered 
a  trifle  crossly. 

"  It  is  my  opinion  that  it  is  a  worthy  mission 
for  some  man  to  prove  that  the  ideal  trust  is  pos- 
sible." Mr.  Harding's  cool  eyes  kindled  as  he 
pictured  himself  in  the  role.  "  I  believe  that  a 
combine  can  be  incorporated  at  not  a  cent  above 
its  real  valuation,  and  can  effect  savings  without 
debasing  the  product  or  cutting  down  the  price 
it  pays  for  raw  material.  With  the  great  capi- 
tal at  its  command  it  is  going  to  be  able  to  util- 
ize its  by-products  effectively,  and  take  every  ad- 
vantage of  the  state  of  the  mafket.  Moreover 

63 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

it  can  save  tremendously  in  running  expenses 
with  one  head  man  for  four  of  the  old  regime. 
It  can  buy  up  rivals  instead  of  being  obliged  to 
ruin  them.  It  may  even  be  able  to  reduce  its 
selling  price  and  share  its  prosperity  with  the 
public.  And  the  man  who  proves  that  this  is  pos- 
sible will  do  more  for  modern  economic  theory 
than  any  maker  of  books,"  he  ended  trium- 
phantly. 

"  I  shall  feel  better  about  it  when  I  see  it 
done,"  said  Theodore  shortly.  "  I'm  going 
down  to  Number  Three." 

Mr.  Harding  turned  to  Reid  as  the  footsteps 
died  away  on  the  stairs. 

"  Theodore  is  very  likely  to  be  governed  by 
his  feelings,  and  has  little  regard  for  abstract 
reasoning.  His  temperament  is  very  like  his 
mother's.  He  has  a  good  head  for  business, 
however,  and  will  do  well  in  a  small  way.  I 
hope  to  fulfill  my  purpose  in  my  lifetime,  and  if 
I  can  leave  everything  compact  and  manageable 
for  him  I  shall  feel  that  I  have  not  lived  in  vain," 
he  said  formally. 

"  You  can  hardly  feel  that,  under  any  circum- 
stances, you  are  so  well  developed  on  many  sides. 
The  man  who  is  primarily  a  business  man  seldom 
gets  more  than  a  superficial  culture  from  art  and 

64 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

literature."  Reid  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  his 
admiration  from  its  object. 

"  It  may  be  true.  My  father  was  a  business 
man  and  my  grandfather  a  clergyman.  Possi- 
bly I  may  have  a  little  of  both  about  me.  Then, 
too,  I  did  not  spend  in  drudgery  the  years  in 
which  a  man  forms  his  tastes.  My  training  was 
primarily  on  the  literary  and  artistic  side."  Mr. 
Harding  liked  to  talk  about  himself  to  a  really 
sympathetic  listener. 

"Where  did  you  study?"  Reid  questioned. 

"  I  was  a  Harvard  man,  like  my  son.  Then 
I  was  two  years  in  a  German  university,  then 
music  at  Leipsic.  As  Thackeray  said,  *  I  lacked 
only  talent  and  application  to  be  at  the  height  of 
my  profession.'  No,  I  am  not  fair  to  myself 
there.  I  really  did  work  hard  at  my  music.  I 
might  have  made  something  of  it  if  I  had  not 
been  called  home." 

"  Business  must  have  been  a  great  change  for 
you  after  a  life  of  study."  From  his  knowledge 
of  the  man  Reid  could  guess  something  of  what 
the  sacrifice  must  have  been. 

"  It  was.  I  rebelled  bitterly  at  first ;  but  I 
was  in  a  way  forced  into  it,  and  I  found  that 
business  was  undoubtedly  my  metier.  Some- 
times I  feel  famished,  even  after  all  these  years, 

65 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

for  the  old  things.  But  it  is  something  to  have 
had  my  boyish  life." 

"  It  must  be  everything,"  Reid  replied  sympa- 
thetically. 

Mr.  Harding  could  speak  freely  to  the  young 
man  of  an  alien  name.  He  could  enter  into 
Reid's  difficulties  far  better  than  into  the  strug- 
gles of  his  own  son.  He  had  long  since  given 
up  the  effort  to  find  kinship  with  his  child.  He 
had  fed  his  own  young  mind  with  the  classics, 
and  saw  with  disgust  that  his  son  preferred  boys' 
books  of  adventure.  He  himself  had  early 
grown  to  love  the  organ,  while  Theodore  had 
thrown  aside  the  violin  after  years  of  unwilling 
practice  and  had  taken  up  the  banjo  with  en- 
thusiasm. True,  all  the  things  in  which  the  son 
had  failed  to  come  up  to  Mr.  Harding's  ideals 
formed  but  slight  defects  in  a  character  honor- 
able, pure,  unselfish,  which  had  even  laid  aside 
with  unexpected  resolution  all  traces  of  boyish 
wildness.  Mr.  Harding,  however,  wished  to  be 
Providence  in  his  family,  and  here  he  had  been 
powerless. 

As  he  climbe.d  the  hill  to  luncheon  through  the 
August  noon,  two  figures  on  horseback  slowly 
preceded  him.  He  realized  with  an  unpleasant 
start  that  he  had  seen  his  daughter  and  Marcus 
Oakley  together  often  of  late.  Althea  was,  to  be 

66 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

sure,  but  a  little  girl  just  out  of  school;  suspi- 
cions seemed  ungrounded,  but  Mr.  Harding's 
business  caution  was  aroused. 

Althea  came  down  into  the  library  a  few  min- 
utes later,  flushed  and  charming.  She  crossed 
the  room  and  perched  on  the  arm  of  her  father's 
chair. 

"Oh,  when  will  luncheon  be  ready?  Aren't 
you  almost  starved  ?  "  she  sighed  as  she  touched 
his  silvery  hair  with  one  finger. 

'''  You  must  have  found  it  very  warm  riding, 
little  girl,"  he  said  absent-mindedly. 

"  Yes,  we  went  out  toward  Riplay.  Mr. 
Oakley  had  business  there." 

"He  isn't  troubled  that  way  often,  is  he?" 
Mr.  Harding  queried. 

"  In  what  way?  "  Althea  asked  quickly. 

"  With  business.  It  must  be  very  hard  for  a 
young  man  without  means  —  this  building  up  a 
practice.  And  I  believe  he  has  debts  to  bother 
him."  The  tones  were  cool  and  deliberate. 

"  I'm  sure  he  didn't  make  them  being  extrava- 
gant. He  spends  hardly  anything,"  said  Althea, 
coming  to  her  friend's  defence. 

"  No,  necessary  college  debts,  I  think.  It  is 
unfortunate  for  a  young  man  to  be  obliged  to 
spend  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  paying  off  such 
liabilities.  It  hampers  him  in  every  way.  Oak- 

67 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ley  is  fortunate,  however,  in  not  being  entangled 
in  any  love  affair." 

"  Yes,"  said  Althea,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  A  young  man  who  is  hampered  with  debts 
and  marries,"  Mr.  Harding  went  on  in  a  gen- 
eral and  philosophical  tone,  "  is  most  unwise  and 
usually  most  unhappy.  Of  course,  if  he  choses 
a  young  woman  accustomed  to  poverty  and  of  a 
frugal  disposition  — " 

"  Like  John  Gilpin's  wife,  *  of  a  frugal 
mind/  "  amended  Althea.  "  There's  the  lunch- 
eon bell,"  as  a  single  silvery  note  struck  in  the 
hall.  "Where's  Teddy?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  seen  him  since  half- 
past  ten  or  thereabouts." 

"  He  is  going  to  umpire  a  game  of  ball  be- 
tween the  boys  of  Number  One  and  Number  Two 
this  afternoon.  I  pity  them  all  —  it's  so  hot." 

"  Theodore's  tastes  surely  are  incomprehensi- 
ble. He  will  stand  there  in  the  sun  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees  and  his  legs  astride  all  the 
afternoon  and  shout  himself  hoarse,  and  call  it 
enjoyment,"  Mr.  Harding  responded  in  vexed 
tones. 

"  He  didn't  want  to,  today,"  said  Althea  loy- 
ally, "  but  the  boys  were  going  to  be  so  disap- 
pointed." 


68 


CHAPTER  VII 

Unrest  abode  beneath  leisurely  beauty  and 
genial  hospitality  in  the  big  house  on  the  hill 
that  summer.  Albion  Harding  chafed  over  the 
slow  maturing  of  his  plans  and  his  son's  incipi- 
ent revolt,  and  Theodore  was  restless  beneath  the 
indifference  of  the  woman  he  loved,  and  sensitive 
to  his  father's  unspoken  criticism.  Althea  found 
life  endurable  only  as  it  brought  her  nearer  to 
Marcus  Oakley,  although  her  passionate,  unbal- 
anced nature  found  in  meeting  nothing  but  pain. 
Mrs.  Harding,  alone,  lived  out  her  placid,  beau- 
tiful life,  untroubled  by  economic  theories  and 
haunting,  unsatisfied  affection. 

She  had  been  a  happy  woman  since  the  time 
when,  a  girl  of  twenty,  she  had  married  Albion 
Harding.  Her  satisfaction  with  her  lot  was 
complete,  and  she  went  but  unwillingly  from 
home.  Nothing  that  she  saw  elsewhere  was  so 
lovely  to  her  as  the  blue  river  winding  down 

69 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

from  the  blue  hills  southward  through  its  mead- 
ows. She  loved  her  wide,  airy  house  and  the 
daily  routine  of  its  care,  the  entertainment  of 
guests,  and  the  whole  round  of  her  ordered  life. 
No  sorrow  had  ever  touched  her  closely;  one 
shadow  of  trouble  only  had  visited  her  —  the 
lack  of  concord  between  her  husband  and  her 
son.  Though  not  brilliant  herself,  she  had  the 
faculty  of  making  others  appear  so.  She  never 
made  mistakes  in  planning  house-parties  or  seat- 
ing her  guests ;  she  had  a  genius  for  breaking  up 
unpleasant  tete-a-tetcs  and  leavening  a  whole 
company  with  good  feeling. 

Her  peaceful  atmosphere  was  an  unfailing  sol- 
ace and  refuge  to  more  than  one  worried  man  or 
tired  woman.  She  was  not  the  least  of  the  at- 
tractions which  brought  Reid  and  Oakley  up  the 
hill  on  summer  nights.  So  on  a  breathless  even- 
ing in  August  the  two  young  men  left  the  lodg- 
ing in  the  valley  which  they  shared,  sure  of  some 
amelioration  of  their  mood  on  the  West  Hill. 
The  sun  had  already  set  and  the  gathering  twi- 
light was  full  of  the  tireless  noise  of  insects;  the 
air  was  heavy  and  lifeless.  In  the  west  dark 
banks  of  clouds  lay  piled,  pierced  now  and  then 
by  flashes  of  lightning. 

A  heavy  silence  seemed  to  reign  on  the  ver- 
anda. Hammocks  and  lounging  chairs  were 

70 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

grouped  within  speaking  distance,  but  no  one 
seemed  to  care  for  speech.  Margaret  Favor  sat 
listless  and  quiet  in  the  light  from  the  hall  lamp, 
with  her  slender  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Her 
father's  cigar  tip  gleamed  a  little  remote.  Theo- 
dore's white  figure  lay  stretched  in  the  hammock 
with  the  pup,  a  dark  ball,  beside  him,  and  the 
white  dresses  of  Mrs.  Harding  and  Althea  were 
visible  near  by.  The  new-comers  were  conscious 
of  a  mingling  of  relaxation  and  tension  in  the 
air,  of  restlessness  and  repose.  It  was  a  night 
when  things  of  importance  might  happen. 

General  Favor  broke  the  long  silence  which 
Mrs.  Harding  had  been  too  wise  to  attempt  to 
stem  with  small  talk. 

"  I  hear  your  pool  isn't  turning  out  a  great 
success,  Harding?" 

"  Indeed !  one  can  hear  almost  anything  if  one 
attends  to  it  industriously,"  Mr.  Harding  replied 
coldly. 

General  Favor  laughed  with  unruffled  good 
humor. 

"  Scored,  Harding!  But  really,  I'm  interested. 
We're  all  interested.  I  heard  you  were  talking 
of  incorporating,  and  I  suppose  if  you  do  you'll 
let  your  friends  in  on  the  ground  floor  in  the 
matter  of  stock.  I  shall  put  in  every  penny  I  can 
raise.  I  suppose  you'll  pay  big  dividends." 

71 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  cannot  say,"  Mr.  Harding  responded  rath- 
er severely.  "  Our  aim  is  primarily  the  protec- 
tion of  the  smaller  manufacturers." 

"  Of  course,  the  philanthropy  of  the  trust  has 
become  proverbial,"  said  Margaret  slowly  and 
stingingly. 

Mr.  Harding  bit  his  lip.  He  dreaded  for 
some  unexplained  reason  to  have  his  motives 
closely  analyzed.  Margaret's  cynicism  troubled 
him  vaguely  and  irritated  him  still  more.  But 
he  chose  to  ignore  her  challenge  to  battle,  rightly 
judging  that  his  silence  would  annoy  her  more 
than  scathing  words. 

"  Then  you  agree  with  me  about  trusts  ?  " 
Theodore  asked  a  trifle  wistfully. 

"  Oh,  that  can't  be,"  Margaret  smiled.  "  We 
never  did  agree  about  anything.  We  mustn't. 
If  you  favor  trusts  I  shall  oppose  them  and  the 
other  way  —  just  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

"  I  wish  you'd  let  up  on  joking  and  talk 
sense,"  Theodore  said  bluntly. 

"  Impossible, —  how  can  you  ask  it  ?  " 

"  Honestly,  what  do  you  think  about  them  ?  " 
He  pressed  the  point  eagerly,  regardless  of  the 
fact  that  there  were  other  auditors. 

"  I  think  the  trust  is  the  one  safeguard  of  the 
country,"  she  responded  promptly. 

"  You  are  letting  your  girlish  enthusiasm  run 
72 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

away  with  you,  Miss  Margaret,"  said  Mr.  Hard- 
ing dryly.  "  But  the  cause  is  fortunate  with  so 
fair  a  champion." 

"  Besides,  if  it  weren't  for  the  pleasant  little 
ways  of  the  creature,  life  would  lose  a  great  deal 
of  its  interest.  For  instance,  what  would  the 
newspapers  do?  I  was  reading  an  interesting 
thing  the  other  day  about  a  corporation  which 
carted  away  by  night  a  rival  factory,"  the  girl 
continued  sweetly. 

"  Nonsense,  Margaret,  you  didn't  believe  that, 
I  hope,"  said  General  Favor  with  paternal  direct- 
ness. "  You  can't  believe  anything  you  read  on 
that  subject.  The  newspapers  that  aren't  in  the 
pay  of  the  corporations  abuse  them  to  gain  the 
public  ear." 

'  That's  a  bad  showing  for  the  papers,  General 
Favor,"  said  Reid,  stung  by  the  statement. 
"  It's  one  that  you  would  find  it  hard  to  prove." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  boy.  I  forgot 
that  we  had  a  newspaper  man  among  us." 

"  Your  statement  is  absurd  on  the  face  of  it, 
father,"  Margaret  added.  "  Don't  you  know 
that  there  isn't  a  trust  in  the  country  that  would 
buy  up  a  newspaper?  Mr.  Harding  and  I  know 
it,  don't  we,  Mr.  Harding?" 

There  was  no  response.  Mr.  Harding's  se- 
73 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

rene  silence  at  once  rebuked  the  girl's  imper- 
tinence and  concealed  his  annoyance. 

General  Favor  rose  with  a  ponderous  sigh. 

"  I'm  going  home,"  he  said  with  the  freedom 
permitted  to  life-long  neighbors.  "  It  can't  be 
any  hotter  there  than  it  is  here,  and,  at  least,  you 
don't  have  to  talk.  You  folks  aren't  any  of  you 
my  build.  Lean  people  don't  know  what  hot 
weather  is.  Are  you  coming,  Margaret?" 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  come.  It  will  be  far 
easier  to  stay  here,"  said  Margaret  languidly. 
Theodore  turned  uneasily  in  the  hammock  and 
the  dog  whined. 

As  General  Favor's  heavy  tread  echoed  down 
the  gravel  walk,  Mr.  Harding  rose  and  silently 
vanished.  A  sudden  longing  had  come  over  him 
for  his  big  music  room  with  its  arched  ceiling, 
carved  dark  wood,  windows  open  to  north  and 
south  and  east,  and  rows  of  shining  organ  keys. 

Althea  rose  as  her  father  disappeared ;  the  cas- 
ual, general  conversation  had  no  interest  for  her. 
She  had  felt  at  times  that  she  must  cry  out  as 
she  listened  to  Margaret's  slow,  honey-sweet 
voice.  Though  it  could  bring  her  only  pain 
and  unsatisfied  craving,  she  longed  to  be  alone 
with  Oakley.  She  had  something  of  importance 
to  tell  him. 

"  Let's  go  down  to  the  summer  house,"  she 
74 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

said  abruptly.  "  The  moon  must  be  just  about 
rising,  and,  as  General  Favor  says,  it  can't  be 
any  hotter  there." 

Margaret  rose  and  Reid  followed  her  exam- 
ple. Then,  seeing  that  Theodore  had  moved 
also,  he  sank  into  his  seat  again.  He  honestly 
meant  not  to  interfere  in  a  matter  which  seemed 
serious  to  his  friend. 

"  Shall  we  go  down  with  these  young  people, 
Mrs.  Harding,  or  shall  we  stay  here?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  to  go,  Mr.  Reid,  but 
don't  let  that  keep  you." 

"  Shall  we  stay  here  and  talk  ?  Go  on,  senti- 
mental young  creatures,  and  look  at  the  moon," 
and  Reid  waved  the  four  a  light  farewell. 

They  passed  around  the  east  wing  where  Mr. 
Harding's  music  already  swelled  out  into  the  hot 
darkness.  Now  and  then  a  sullen,  distant  peal 
of  thunder  echoed  the  lower  notes  of  the  organ. 
The  black  clouds  were  slowly  rising  higher  and 
higher,  and  were  pierced  more  and  more  fre- 
quently by  lightning  flashes.  It  had  hardly 
rained  for  a  month  and  in  the  dewless  night  the 
grass  was  dry  and  warm  to  the  feet.  On  the 
crest  of  the  hill  was  a  little,  honeysuckle-covered 
arbor,  a  relic  of  the  days  of  the  clergyman  grand- 
father. There  he  had  been  accustomed,  so  tra- 

75 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

dition  said,  to  compose  his  stern  sermons,  his 
mild  old  face  beaming  as  he  consigned  the  wicked 
to  eternal  fire,  in  a  deftly  turned  phrase.  Here 
his  matter-of-fact  descendant  seated  himself  with 
the  cynical,  modern  lady  of  his  love. 

Althea  and  Oakley,  however,  walked  on  in  si- 
lence to  a  rustic  seat,  half-buried  in  the  branches 
of  a  giant  fir.  From  a  distance  came  the  throb 
of  the  organ  and  the  irregular  detonations  of 
the  thunder.  For  a  time  they  hardly  spoke. 
The  full  moon  rising  showed  Althea's  dark  eyes 
and  her  thin,  dusky  arms  through  the  sheer  mus- 
lin of  her  gown.  Oakley,  gazing  fixedly  over 
the  pale  lights  of  the  valley,  was  striving  for  self- 
control. 

"  Mother  and  I  are  going  abroad  in  Septem- 
ber. They  have  decided."  Althea  broke  the  si- 
lence in  a  hard  voice. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  spend  the  win- 
ter in  New  York,  and  be  a  great  social  success." 
Oakley  tried  to  speak  lightly,  but  his  voice  be- 
trayed him. 

"  They  changed  their  mind,"  said  Althea 
quietly. 

"  You  will  stay  some  time  when  you  once  get 
across,  I  suppose,"  said  Oakley,  talking  against 
time.  "  I  always  thought  nothing  less  than  two 
years  would  satisfy  me." 

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THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Nothing  at  all  would  satisfy  me.  I  don't 
want  to  go." 

"  You  have  only  to  say  so,  then,  of  course. 
They  are  doing  it  to  please  you,"  the  young  man 
blundered. 

"  They're  not.  They're  doing  it  to  get  me 
away  from  you.  They  know  I  love  you,  Mar- 
cus; don't  you  care  for  me  a  bit?  If  you  don't 
I  shall  die!" 

The  words  came  slowly  at  first  and  then  with 
a  rush,  breaking  down  Oakley's  wall  of  reserve. 
In  a  moment  he  held  the  slight  form  clasped  in 
his  arms. 

"  Althea,  you  know  I  do,"  he  murmured. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Althea  was  sobbing, 
but  in  a  not  altogether  heart-broken  way.  She 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"If  you  loved  me  why  didn't  you  tell  me? 
You  treated  me  just  as  you  did  every  one  else. 
I  am  so  miserable." 

"  I  tried  hard  to.  Don't  you  see  why  ?  "  he 
said  softly.  "  It  was  the  only  thing  for  me  to 
do.  I  can't  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  I  have 
nothing  at  all,  and  you  are  so  young.  You  are 
nothing  but  a  child." 

"  Oh,  Marcus,  I'm  not.  I've  felt  so  old  the 
last  week.  And  mother  was  married  when  she 

77 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

was  twenty,  and  I'm  eighteen  now.  It  needn't 
be  for  a  long  time  yet.  We  can  wait  years," 
she  pleaded  like  a  wilful  child. 

"  But  it  isn't  fair  to  you,  dear.  You  are 
young  and  may  see  someone  you  care  more  for. 
I'm  not  willing  to  bind  you.  I  don't  think  it 
would  be  the  happiest  thing  for  you.  Long  en- 
gagements aren't  often  happy." 

"  Well,  we  needn't  be  engaged  so  very  long. 
I  could  learn  to  keep  house.  I  can  work/'  Al- 
thea  protested. 

"  You  work ! "  Oakley  laughed  softly. 
"  That's  just  what  I  don't  want  to  see  you  doing. 
When  I  can  offer  you  comfort  and  something 
like  the  ease  which  you  have  enjoyed  at  home, 
I  shall  ask  you  to  share  it,  but  not  until  then.  I 
love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  always  shall." 

"  Father  would  help  us,  I  know  he  would." 

"  Althea,  do  you  think  I  would  let  him  ?  " 

"  But  you  said  you  wanted  to  do  what  would 
make  me  happiest."  Althea's  dusky  little  face 
was  instinct  with  passionate  surprise.  She  had 
seen  for  herself  a  clear  solution  of  the  whole  mat- 
ter, and  had  expected  that  it  would  appeal  at  once 
to  her  lover. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  could  purchase  even 
your  happiness  with  my  self-respect?" 

The  girl  was  abashed  before  Oakley's  sudden 
78 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

indignation.  She  looked  down  over  the  valley 
with  the  red  moon  already  mounting  over  its 
lights. 

"  Your  father  will  think  it  very  wrong  to  have 
spoken  to  you,  Althea,"  Oakley  said  at  length, 
drawing  her  still  closer. 

"  I  suppose  he  will.  He  thinks  a  great  deal 
of  money  and  position." 

"  And  I  have  neither,"  Oakley  said.  "  And 
yet  I  have  presumed  to  love  his  daughter." 

"  I  shall  tell  him  exactly  how  it  was,"  said 
Althea  from  the  safe  shelter  of  her  lover's  arm. 
"  I  shall  tell  him  that  I  made  you  say  it,  that 
it  wasn't  your  fault." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  you  brave 
child,"  and  he  covered  the  thin  cheek  with  kisses. 
"  Confess,  now,  that  it  would  frighten  you  half 
to  death." 

"  Of  course  it  would.  I'm  not  exactly  afraid 
of  father,  but  it's  not  far  from  it.  He  never 
shows  that  he  is  angry,  and  he  is  always  perfectly 
polite,  no  matter  how  you  have  displeased  him; 
but  his  standards  are  so  high  —  or  something  — 
oh,  he  will  think  what  I  said  to  you  was  dreadful. 
Marcus,  do  you?  "  she  shuddered  nervously  and 
clung  closer  to  Oakley  as  she  questioned  him. 

"  No,  dearest,  you  only  gave  me  a  chance  to 
say  something  I  have  wanted  to  for  so  long,  but 

79 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

didn't  for  your  sake.  Does  it  seem  very  hard- 
hearted, when  I  knew  you  cared,  not  to  — " 

"Did  you  know  I  cared?"  she  asked  sharply. 
Oakley  was  angry  with  himself  for  his  want  of 
tact. 

"  I  was  afraid  so.  It  seemed  to  me  your  eyes 
told  it  to  me  sometimes.  I  didn't  see  why  you 
should  love  such  a  poor  sort  of  a  fellow  —  and 
such  a  coward.  But  I  was  a  coward  for  you, 
dear.  I  was  afraid  of  making  you  wretched." 

"  I  want  you  to  understand  all  about  it,  dear," 
he  said  again  after  a  pause.  "  I  shall  be  a  poor 
sort  of  lover.  I  can't  give  you  beautiful  pres- 
ents and  a  handsome  engagement  ring,  and  take 
you  to  the  theater  and  parties  as  a  rich  man 
could.  You  will  be  ashamed  of  your  shabby 
lover,  dearest." 

"  Never,"  she  said  softly.  "  I  love  him  just 
as  he  is  better  than  I  could  any  other  way." 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  speak  to  your  father  to- 
night, don't  you,  Althea?"  Oakley  said  at  last. 
"  It  is  his  right  to  know  at  once." 

"  I  ought  to." 

"  Nonsense,  you  can  speak  to  him  later.  And 
mind  you  don't  make  any  of  those  dreadful  reve- 
lations you  threatened,"  Oakley  laughed. 

"  We  must  go  up  now.  It  must  be  getting 
late.  I  haven't  heard  the  organ  for  some  time." 

80 


Althea  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  sense  of  the 
lateness  of  the  hour. 

"  All  right.  I  must  hunt  your  father  up," 
Oakley  rejoined  with  forced  cheerfulness. 

"  And  you  won't  tell  him  what  I  said  to  you  ?  " 
Althea  quavered,  with  a  little  thrill  as  of  tears 
in  her  voice.  All  her  courage  had  vanished  be- 
fore the  imminence  of  the  confession.  "  Nor 
even  hint  at  it.  I  don't  know  what  he  would 
think." 

They  walked  slowly  up  to  the  house,  noting  the 
highly  piled  masses  of  black  clouds  and  guess- 
ing the  nearness  of  the  rain. 

They  separated  at  the  veranda  and  Oakley, 
with  beating  heart,  sought  the  library. 

An  hour  later  Reid  and  Oakley  sat  together  in 
their  common  room,  watching  the  murmurous 
downpour  of  the  rain.  After  a  long  silence  the 
former  said : 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  you,  Oak.  Don't 
get  mad  at  me  for  saying  it,  but  you've  got  to 
look  out." 

"  It's  too  late  for  your  advice  to  do  any  good. 
I've  done  it  already." 

"Looked  out!     What!     That  child?" 

"  I  know  it.  She  isn't  anything  but  a  child, 
and  that's  what  I  like  best  about  her,  I  think." 

81 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"Well,  what  luck?  There's  no  need  of  ask- 
ing, I  suppose." 

"  Accepted  by  daughter  and  declined  without 
thanks  by  father.  Just  about  what  you  would 
expect." 

"  See  here,  Frank,"  Oakley  added,  breaking 
the  pause  that  followed  Reid's  somewhat  falter- 
ing congratulations,  "  I  should  like  to  have  one 
person  know  just  how  it  all  happened.  I  know 
I  seem  like  a  cad  in  this  whole  business,  but  it 
really  wasn't  so  bad  as  it  seems."  Then,  very 
tenderly  and  delicately,  he  told  the  story  of  the 
night.  If  it  had  to  be  told  at  all  it  could  not 
have  been  done  better.  Reid,  however,  listened 
with  a  sense  of  guilt.  At  the  close  of  the  nar- 
rative he  said : 

"  And  how  was  it  left,  if  you  don't  mind  tell- 
ing?" 

"  She  is  going  abroad  for  three  years,  and  we 
are  not  to  be  engaged,  nor  to  write.  Then  if 
we're  both  so  minded  we  can  be  engaged  until 
such  a  time  as  he  graciously  thinks  us  ready  to 
marry." 

"That  sounds  like  Mr.  Harding,"  Reid 
laughed.  "  And  you  agreed  ?  " 

"What  else  was  there  to  do?"  said  Oakley 
wearily.  "  I  wish  I  had  fifty  thousand  dollars ; 
that  isn't  much  to  ask  for.  But  it  wouldn't  have 

82 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

been  bad  fun,  if  it  hadn't  been  a  serious  matter 
to  me,  to  see  the  way  Mr.  Harding  took  hold  of 
it.  He  was  fazed  for  about  three  minutes  and 
mad  for  about  six  more,  and  then  he  settled 
down  to  it  just  as  if  it  had  been  a  strike  or  a  big 
business  deal  of  some  sort,  and  he  struck  out 
his  campaign  all  in  a  minute,  like  the  general 
he  is.  By  the  way,  Reid,  did  you  know  he  is  at 
work  on  some  sort  of  a  book  on  Dante  and  his 
times  ?  You  should  have  heard  him  talk  about  it. 
I  had  fairly  to  break  in  with  my  small  personal 
matters." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Theodore  Harding  was  filled  with  dismay  as 
he  saw  his  friend  gradually  supplanting  him. 
He  had  grown  through  a  child's  friendship  and 
a  boy's  love  to  consider  Margaret  Favor  his 
property.  He  had  laid  claim  to  her  more  than 
once,  only  to  meet  with  deft  evasions;  but  that 
summer  had  fixed  his  determination  to  have  a 
definite  answer.  He  waited  long  for  his  oppor- 
tunity, however,  as  Margaret  was  wary,  and  not 
inclined  to  give  him  a  chance  for  private  speech. 
His  heart  was  therefore  filled  with  triumph  one 
August  afternoon,  as  he  drove  out  into  the  coun- 
try with  the  girl  by  his  side.  He  spoke  but 
little  save  to  the  horse,  who  worked  his  sensitive 
ears  uneasily.  The  big  fellow,  trained  to  the 
saddle,  chafed  at  the  unusual  trappings  and  the 
whir  of  light  buggy  wheels  behind  him.  His 
glossy  flanks  were  wet  and  he  started  nervously. 

Once  Margaret  said,  with  a  touch  of  petulance 
in  her  tone : 

84 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  are  doing  this  for.  It 
will  spoil  him  for  the  saddle." 

"  There's  no  danger  of  that ;  he  will  always 
be  a  saddle  horse  first;  but  you  see  he  doesn't 
get  enough  exercise,  and  I  need  a  driving  horse," 
Theodore  explained. 

"  Economy  ?  "  said  Margaret,  laughing  a  little 
ironically. 

They  stabled  the  horse  at  the  end  of  their 
drive  and  wound  their  way,  alone  with  pasture 
and  sky,  into  the  pine  wood,  where  big  patches 
of  golden  light  glowed  on  the  smooth  brown 
floor.  The  strident  trill  of  insects  seemed  to  be 
shut  outside  with  the  glare  of  sunshine.  The 
only  sound  was  the  sighing  of  the  wind  among 
the  pines  and  a  ripple  of  water,  growing  momen- 
tarily louder  as  they  proceeded. 

"  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  "  Margaret  said,  in  a  voice 
full  of  the  soft  sincerity  which  marked  her  best 
mood.  Theodore  quickly  recognized  his  oppor- 
tunity, but  fell  suddenly  tongue-tied,  and  could 
only  answer: 

'Tis    nice.     It's    a    nice    brook  —  hear    it ! 
Good  trout-fishing  in  the  pools  above." 

"  I  really  believe,  Theodore  Harding,  that  all 
you  care  about  out  of  doors  is  killing  some- 
thing." The  girl  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was 
an  undercurrent  of  protest  in  her  tones. 

85 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Come  now,  Margaret,  be  fair,"  he  an- 
swered. "  Don't  you  ever  do  me  a  bit  of  jus- 
tice?" 

"  Well,  isn't  that  the  way  of  it  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  the  killing  at  all.  It's  the  sport. 
Someway,  too,  I  like  being  out  of  doors  better  — 
just  the  air  and  the  smell  and  the  looks  of  every- 
thing —  if  I  have  a  rod  or  a  gun  in  my  hands. 
I  can't  go  out  just  for  the  exercise,  the  way  some 
fellows  do, —  at  any  rate,  I  don't  care  so  much 
about  it." 

"  I  can't  understand  how  any  one  can  be  will- 
ing to  kill  wild  creatures,"  said  Margaret,  in 
somewhat  superior  tones. 

"  Well,  for  all  I'm  such  a  butcher,  I  wouldn't 
be  so  unkind  to  anyone  as  you  are  to  me,  for  a 
good  deal,"  Theodore  replied,  turning  the  tables 
most  unexpectedly. 

"  Oh,  just  look ! "  cried  the  girl,  glad  to 
change  the  subject.  They  had  come  to  the  spot 
where  the  brook  made  its  way  through  the  pines. 
The  trees  stood  back  a  little  from  the  stream, 
leaving  a  bank  where  hardy  grass  peeped  up 
through  the  sprinkling  of  brown  needles.  The 
sunlight  poured  into  the  little  opening  and  light- 
ed up  the  water  into  clearest  amber.  The  stream 
was  broad  and  shallow,  pouring  over  the  stones 
of  its  bed  with  abundant  laughter.  Down  to  the 

86 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

golden  eddies  crowded  spikes  of  the  cardinal 
flower,  a  glowing  company,  shining  in  the  sun- 
light with  the  lambency  of  rubies.  Over  the  nar- 
row opening  above,  the  sky  stretched,  an  azure 
awning,  flecked  with  one  white,  sunlit  cloud,  and 
down  below,  perched  on  a  spray  of  alder  which 
overhung  the  stream,  was  a  blue-bird,  child  at 
once  of  earth  and  sky. 

"  I  was  reading  an  explanation  of  the  fact  — 
it  was  assumed  as  a  fact  — "  Margaret  began 
hastily.  She  knew  what  was  coming  and 
dreaded  it. 

"  See  here,  Margaret,  I've  stood  all  the  quib- 
bling I  can,"  Theodore  said  with  a  touch  of  the 
masterful  in  his  tone  altogether  foreign  to  it. 
Then,  seeing  her  flush,  he  added  remorsefully, 
"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  a  brute.  You  must  for- 
give me,  and  recollect  that  I've  stood  being  put 
off  a  good  many  times  without  saying  much 
about  it.  Do  you  remember  that  I  asked  you 
something  five  years  ago  last  December?  I 
don't  blame  you  for  putting  me  off  then.  I  was 
going  the  pace  and  wasn't  fit  for  you.  I'm  not 
now,  when  it  comes  to  that;  but  I've  picked  up 
a  bit  since  then  —  and  anyway,  Margaret,  you 
ought  to  know  by  this  time  whether  you  care  for 
me  or  not."  Theodore's  dark  cheeks  were 
flushed,  his  whole  face  quivered  with  the  in- 

87 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

tensity  of  his  feeling.  Margaret  was  moved  to 
pity,  but  not  to  decision.  She  spoke  regret- 
fully: 

"  I  don't  know,  and  that's  all  I  can  say.  I 
do  care  for  you,  of  course,  how  can  I  help  it? 
But  that  way?  We  ought  to  love  each  other 
very,  very  much,  Teddy,  if  we  think  of  mar- 
riage,—  more  than  people  who  have  more  tastes 
in  common.  We  have  that  difference  to  get 
over  all  the  time." 

Theodore  noticed  the  use  of  the  old  childish 
diminutive  with  an  access  of  courage.  In  the 
days  when  she  had  used  it  habitually  this  matter 
had  been  settled  in  the  affirmative.  He  spoke 
more  hopefully: 

"  Well,  let's  talk  it  over.  You  say  our  tastes 
aren't  alike.  Just  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why,  it  is  plain  enough,  I  think.  We  don't 
care  for  the  same  things  in  literature  or  amuse- 
ments or  anything." 

"  Well,  lots  of  people  are  married  who  don't, 
and  they  get  on  well  enough." 

"  And  is  that  all  you  aim  at  —  getting  on  well 
enough  ?  " 

Something  very  rapturous  had  in  truth  been  in 
Theodore's  mind  when  he  spoke  the  prosaic 
words,  but  he  could  not  express  it.  He  an- 
swered soberly: 

88 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  wish  I  ever  could  suit  you  with  what  I 
say,  Margaret.  I'll  say  they  are  perfectly  happy, 
if  you  prefer,  only  I  don't  believe  in  it.  If  you 
are  waiting-  to  find  somebody  you  can  be  per- 
fectly happy  with  you'll  have  to  wait  a  good 
while." 

'  That's  exactly  the  person  I  intend  to  wait 
for,"  Margaret  replied  with  dignity. 

"  And  that  is  what  is  keeping  us  apart! "  said 
Theodore  in  desperation.  "  Margaret,  dear, 
why  should  we  expect  to  be  perfectly  happy? 
There  will  be  troubles  just  the  same,  and  days 
when  one  feels  cross,  and  headaches,  and  all 
those  things.  This  is  the  way  I  think  of  it  — 
that  I'll  be  happier  with  you  than  any  one  else." 

"  At  any  rate  if  you  were  the  right  person  I 
ought  to  think  I  should  be  perfectly  happy  with 
you.  I  don't  even  feel  sure  that  I  should  be 
happier  with  you  than  with  any  one  else.  If  only 
we  had  more  tastes  in  common,"  Margaret  hesi- 
tated. 

"  I  would  try  to  like  Browning  and  Ibsen  and 
Wagner  and  all  those  fellows  you  are  so  fond 
of.  Perhaps  I  could.  And  I  would  try  so  hard 
to  make  you  happy.  I'm  not  at  all  the  brilliant 
sort  of  fellow  you  ought  to  marry,  I  know,  but 
I  would  do  the  best  I  could.  I  know  the  things 

89 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

you  like  and  how  to  please  you  better  than  any 
other  man  does  —  and  I  would  try  harder." 

"  It  seems  selfish  for  me  to  be  talking  all  the 
time  of  what  would  make  me  happy;  but  you 
know  one  of  us  couldn't  be  happy  if  the  other 
wasn't,"  Margaret  said  gently. 

"  And  you  can't  give  me  any  answer  then  ? 
You  don't  know  how  unsettling  it  is  to  me  to 
go  on  this  way." 

"  If  I  give  you  a  definite  answer  now  it  must 
be  no,  Teddy.  I  don't  want  to  say  that." 

"  All  right,  don't  say  anything  then.  I  can 
stand  it  a  while  longer.  Only  if  you  do  decide, 
you  might  put  an  end  to  my  suspense  one  way 
or  the  other  without  making  me  go  all  through 
this  again.  It  gets  monotonous." 

He  covered  his  real  feeling  with  a  mask  of 
lightness  which  somehow  jarred  upon  the  wom- 
an at  his  side.  She  did  not  answer  him,  and  in 
silence  they  turned  and  passed  out  through  the 
dense  shadows  of  the  pines  into  the  pasture.  The 
shade  from  the  wood  reached  long  and  dark 
ahead  of  them.  Along  the  crest  of  the  hill  the 
cows  went  tinkling  home,  their  bells  sounding 
back  softly  through  the  evening  air, —  the  one 
music  which  seemed  to  belong  to  the  ferny  pas- 
tures, the  low  sun  and  the  August  haze.  Theo- 
dore looked  longingly  at  Margaret  as  they 

90 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

climbed  the  uncertain  way  together.  From  his 
position  a  little  behind  he  could  gaze  unreproved 
at  her  flushed  cheeks,  her  blue-grey  eyes,  her 
rippling  bronze  hair.  She  made  a  brilliant  pic- 
ture against  the  rusty  background  of  the  hill, 
with  the  sheaf  of  crimson  flowers  glowing 
against  her  creamy  waist.  She  looked  like  some 
delicate  garden  blossom,  strayed  by  chance  into 
the  wilds,  yet  not  of  them. 

Theodore  felt  an  almost  unconquerable  desire 
to  capture  his  companion  by  force  in  some  primi- 
tive fashion,  and  put  an  end  to  her  useless  ques- 
tionings. They  seemed,  indeed,  useless  to  him. 
To  his  mind  it  was  an  understood  thing  that  a 
woman  should  have  tastes  and  pleasures  that  a 
man  did  not  share.  Why  should  she  feel  it  a 
more  vital  matter  that  he  did  not  share  her  en- 
thusiasm for  Wagner  than  that  laces  and  silks 
appealed  but  dimly  to  him  ?  Why  was  it  more  to 
be  deplored  that  he  did  not  understand  literary 
technique,  than  that  she  did  not  understand  the 
philosophy  of  business  relations?  It  was  all  a 
hopeless,  hurting  problem. 

Two  days  later  Margaret  Favor  and  Francis 
Reid  discussed  the  same  question.  They  were 
drifting  slowly  down  the  river  in  the  sunset. 
East,  west  and  south  glowed  with  a  uniform, 
clear  gold,  curdled  here  and  there  into  orange 

91 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

flecks.  In  the  north  were  piled  great  dark 
banks  of  clouds,  touched  on  the  edges  with  saf- 
fron, and  lighted  from  coldness  by  the  glow 
of  the  whole  sky.  Suddenly  the  color  faded 
as  if  a  great  light  had  gone  out.  The  clouds, 
robbed  of  their  splendor  seemed  slaty  and  cold. 
Margaret  shivered  and  drew  her  heavy  blue  cape 
more  closely  about  her.  Into  the  silence  Reid 
quoted : 

"  For  note  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey." 

Margaret  joined  him  and  chanted  softly  to  the 
end. 

"  What  does  it  make  you  think  of  ?  "  she  asked 
after  a  pause. 

"  The  sunset?  Of  how  life  looked  to  me  once 
and  how  it  looks  now,  I  think.  It  was  all  golden, 
but  the  gold  faded  and  left  the  grey.  It  was 
like  the  sunset,  too,  in  that  it  was  no  phenome- 
non, but  just  caused  by  the  time  o'  day,"  he 
added  with  a  little  laugh. 

Reid  looked  most  ideally  sad,  as  he  gazed  on 
the  distant,  sombre  horizon.  His  high,  black 
jersey  somehow  gave  his  face  an  ascetic  look,  the 
expression  of  the  idealist,  the  devotee ;  but  in  his 
^yes  was  the  pain  of  disillusion.  The  combina- 
tion pleased  Margaret,  and  she  answered, 

92 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  was  thinking  that  same  thing  myself." 
Reid  had  a  lurking  sense  that  the  thought  was 
after  all  an  obvious  one;  but  the  mutual  compre- 
hension pleased  him.  It  was  an  admirable  op- 
portunity for  sentiment,  and  he  quoted  softly 
once  more, 

"  So  one  in  thought  and  heart  I  trow 
That  thou  mightst  press  the  strings  and  I  might  draw 
the  bow." 

There  was  a  tiny  spark  of  something  like 
amusement  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  their  glances 
met.  She  was  strangely  elusive,  mingling  a 
mocking  hardness  with  her  sentimental  moods. 
The  suspicion  that  she  was  laughing  at  him  piqued 
Reid.  He  continued  more  boldly  than  usual : 

"  There  speaks  the  final  word  on  the  subject 
of  the  perfect  marriage." 

His  companion  answered  soberly  enough  now, 

"  Do  you  suppose  it  was  really  that  to  them  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  In  spite  of  illness  and  poverty 
those  two  were  perfectly  happy.  I  never  doubt 
it." 

"  Theodore  says  there  is  no  such  thing  as  per- 
fect happiness,"  Margaret  ventured. 

"  The  prosaic  fellow !  His  imagination 
doesn't  rise  that  high." 

"  Isn't  he  matter  of  fact?  If  I  had  asked  him 
what  the  sunset  made  him  think  of  he  would  have 

93 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

said  briefly,   '  Cold  tomorrow ! ' —  and  buttoned 
up  his  coat  in  preparation." 

Reid  laughed  at  her  wicked  little  imitation, 
and  then  replied  seriously, 

"  Well,  he  gains  something.  If  he  doesn't 
have  the  ecstasies  he  doesn't  have  the  reactions. 
He  probably  gets  more  enjoyment  in  the  long 
run.  Which  kind  would  you  rather  have?  " 

"  I've  always  thought,"  said  Margaret  Favor 
slowly,  "  that  if  I  could  be  perfectly  happy  for 
one  week  —  and  know  it,  I  would  rather  have 
that  than  years  of  getting  on  '  well  enough.'  ' 
She  was  thinking  of  Theodore's  unlucky  phrase. 
Reid  could  not  know  this,  but  he  answered  part 
of  her  thought. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  in  perfect  happiness  in  mar- 
riage. Of  course  there  are  everyday  troubles, 
but  don't  you  know  that  on  a  day  when  you  are 
keyed  right  to  the  world  nothing  troubles  you 
much.  The  things  that  annoyed  you  before  have 
lost  their  power  to  irritate.  That  is  what  the 
perfect  marriage  should  do  for  one  —  put  him  in 
harmony  with  the  universe." 

"  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Reid,  that  such  harmony 
can  come  without  likeness  of  tastes  —  that  love 
alone  is  enough  ? "  Margaret  was  a  strange 
mingling  of  the  sentimental  girl  and  the  woman 

94 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

of  the  world,  and  was  speaking  now  from  the 
former  mood. 

"  Perfect  oneness  can  hardly  come  without  es- 
sential harmony  of  tastes,"  said  Reid  judicially. 
"  But  it  is  something-,  after  all,  that  cannot  be 
analyzed." 

"  Any  more  than  why  one  should  love  one  per- 
son and  dislike  another,"  Margaret  added. 

"  These  things  are  too  subtle  for  us.  We  blun- 
der into  them  without  knowing  how  or  why. 
The  main  thing  is  not  to  accept  any  compromises 
at  the  hands  of  fate."  He  paused  a  moment  and 
then  added  daringly. 

"  I  have  all  the  zeal  of  a  new  convert.  I  have 
always  been  more  or  less  sceptical  on  the  subject 
of  affinities,  and  the  perfect  marriage,  and  all 
that.  But  lately  I  have  come  to  believe  that  it  is 
possible  for  a  man  to  find  a  woman  who  is  at 
once  his  complement  and  his  supplement  —  some- 
times it  seems  that  the  glory  is  coming  back  to 
the  grey." 

The  girl  met  his  significant  gaze  fully  and 
answered  with  a  short  laugh, 

"  And  I." 

The  charm  of  it  all  was  that  it  might  mean 
something  or  nothing,  as  they  chose.  Anything 
more  outspoken,  like  Theodore's  direct  appeal, 
would  have  failed  to  kindle  Margaret's  imagina- 

95 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

tion,  or  would  have  antagonized  her.  It  was  all 
plain  common-sense,  .with  the  possibility,  a  sober 
drab  at  best,  of  getting  on  well  enough.  It  had 
merely  forced  her  toward  a  disagreeable  decision. 
This,  however,  was  a  little  intoxicating  and  in 
spite  of  its  piquant  excitement  pledged  nothing. 
Both  knew  that  any  serious  talk  of  love  between 
them  was  out  of  the  question,  and  perhaps  this 
very  sense  of  the  forbidden  lent  charm  to  the  tri- 
fling. In  the  mind  of  the  man,  however,  there 
was  an  uneasy  sense  of  disloyalty  to  his  friend. 
Francis  Reid  was  one  of  those  men  —  not  al- 
ways loved  over-much  by  their  mates  —  who  find 
in  an  attractive  woman  insistent  and  usually 
overpowering  temptations  to  Platonic  friendship. 
The  idle,  half-sentimental  triflings  do  little  harm 
anywhere,  but  sometimes,  as  in  this  case,  they 
cast  a  more  prosaic  wooer  into  disfavor.  Reid 
was  a  good  fellow  in  the  main,  and  a  true  friend 
to  Theodore  Harding,  as  the  final  issue  always 
showed,  and  if  he  had  thought  that  his  friend 
stood  a  remote  chance  of  winning  Margaret,  and 
with  her,  happiness,  he  would  have  avoided  her 
society.  As  it  was  he  drifted,  smiling  a  trifle 
cynically  over  an  attraction  the  power  of  which 
he  owned. 


96 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  case  of  Oakley  and  Althea  grew  no  bright- 
er as  the  autumn  days  shortened.  The  date  ap- 
proached on  which  Mrs.  Harding  and  Althea 
were  to  sail  for  Europe,  and,  as  time  passed, 
Oakley  began  to  realize  the  force  of  his  feeling 
for  the  young  girl.  He  appreciated,  too,  more 
keenly  her  dependence  on  him.  His  sense  of 
honor  had  compelled  him  to  forbid  her  the  child- 
ish, pathetic  notes  and  clandestine  meetings  on 
which  she  relied  to  sustain  her  spirits.  He  had 
been  forced  to  be  almost  harsh  with  her,  hard  as 
he  found  it.  He  was,  himself,  absolutely  de- 
pendent on  outside  support  in  time  of  trouble,  and 
in  this  emergency  relied  on  Theodore's  unfailing 
sympathy.  The  latter  forgot  his  own  unrest  in 
his  friend's  trouble  and  tried  in  every  possible 
way  consistent  with  his  somewhat  rigid  ideas  of 
propriety  to  console  the  disconsolate  lovers.  It 
was  with  the  hope  of  modifying  Oakley's  gloom 
that  he  said  in  a  casual  way  one  morning, 

97 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  See  here,  Oak !  Have  you  got  time  to  take 
Victor  out  for  a  little  exercise?  He  is  spoiling 
for  ten  or  twenty  miles  of  road,  and  I  don't  like 
to  have  Tom  ride  him.  He  works  the  mischief 
with  him  some  way  or  other." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  don't  want  him  yourself?  " 
Oakley  asked  apathetically. 

"  I  can't  get  off.  Shall  be  busy  all  day.  It 
will  be  a  real  favor  to  me." 

"  I  must  go  out  to  Cutler  some  day  this  week," 
Oakley  replied.  "  Old  Mrs.  Mowbray  wants  to 
make  a  new  will." 

Theodore  smiled  appreciatively. 

"  Cutler  will  be  just  the  thing  for  Victor.  You 
want  to  look  out  for  him  a  bit.  He's  feeling  fine. 
Tom  says  he  is  ugly,  but  he  isn't.  The  boy's 
afraid  of  him,  that's  all.  What  time  shall  I  have 
him  brought  down  ?  " 

"  Oh,  two  o'clock.  But  I  can  come  up  after 
him." 

"  I'll  spare  you  the  temptation.  I'll  telephone 
Tom  to  bring  him  down." 

Oakley  was  familiar  with  Theodore  Harding's 
powerful  black  horse  and  knew  how  to  curb  the 
creature's  caprices  almost  as  well  as  the  owner. 
As  he  swung  into  the  saddle  that  afternoon  and 
felt  the  big  beast  beneath  him  quiver  to  be  off, 
the  exhilaration  of  riding  took  possession  of  him. 

98 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Victor  was  chafing  to  be  in  motion  and  took  his 
smooth  rapid  gait  along  the  road  into  the  coun- 
try. A  bracing  September  breeze  was  blowing, 
tossing  about  the  green  boughs  of  the  maples 
and  revealing  here  and  there  a  crimson  leaf.  The 
air,  sharp  with  the  tang  of  dying  leaves,  was  a 
keen  elixir  of  life;  and  gradually  a  part  of  the 
man's  troubled  personality  was  merged  in  the 
splendid  gladness  of  the  beast  he  rode.  All  but 
the  greater  troubles  drop  away  from  a  good  rider 
with  a  good  horse  beneath  him.  Oakley  began 
to  reflect  that  things  might  have  been  worse,  and 
found  the  bright  features  of  his  position  not  few. 
By  the  time  he  reached  Cutler  he  was  in  a  frame 
of  mind  to  listen  patiently  to  his  mother's  old 
friend,  soothe  her  doubts,  and  add  another  codi- 
cil to  the  lengthening  document  that  formed  her 
chief  interest  in  life. 

Althea  Harding  found  some  comfort  for  her 
forlorn  state  in  the  stables;  and  had  been  there 
when  Tom,  the  groom,  was  saddling  Victor.  In 
answer  to  her  questions  she  had  learned  that 
"  Lawyer  Oakley  "  was  going  to  have  the  horse 
to  ride  out  to  Cutler.  Althea's  mind  was  made  up 
in  an  instant.  Fate  had  relented  a  little  and  had 
placed  a  meagre  kindness  in  her  path.  As  soon 

99 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

as  Tom  was  gone  she  saddled  her  little  white 
mare  and  started  in  pursuit. 

She  pressed  the  horse  at  a  brisk  canter  through 
the  village  and  out  into  the  country.  She  had 
always  been  cautioned  against  riding  alone  on  re- 
mote roads,  and  had  counted  somewhat  rashly  on 
overtaking  Oakley  before  she  had  left  the  thickly 
settled  districts  behind  her.  His  pace  had  been 
swifter  than  she  supposed  and  his  start  longer, 
however,  and  her  pursuit  was  useless.  Houses 
became  less  and  less  frequent  and  stretches  of 
woodland  longer.  Vixen  began  to>  shirk.  She 
had  swift  little  mouse-colored  legs,  but  had  also 
strong  ideas  as  to  routes  and  distances.  The  girl, 
almost  at  the  point  of  tears,  plied  the  whip  vigor- 
ously, but  could  only  produce  a  gentle,  ineffectu- 
al canter.  She  was  still  more  than  four  miles 
from  Cutler,  and  she  realized  with  sudden  fright 
that  there  were  two  roads  thither.  Oakley  might 
return  by  a  different  way,  and  miss  her  al- 
together. Suddenly,  by  some  inadvertence  her 
whip  became  entangled  in  her  riding  skirt  and 
was  jerked  from  her  hand. 

She  stopped  the  too  willing  Vixen  in  dismay, 
knowing  that  without  brisk  incentive  the  horse 
would  go  no  further.  She  slid  lightly  to  the 
ground  and  stooped  to  pick  up  the  whip,  grasp- 
ing the  bridle  tightly.  Vixen,  however,  seizing 

TOO 


the  opportunity,  freed  herself  with  a  dexterous 
toss  of  her  head,  and  began  cropping  the  wayside 
grass  at  a  discreet  distance. 

With  an  angry  exclamation  Althea  picked  up 
the  whip  and  followed  the  little  mare.  Vixen 
waited  with  lowered  head,  all  meekness  and  sub- 
mission, until  she  judged  the  hand  too  near. 
Then  with  a  deftly  calculated  toss  of  the  head 
she  eluded  Althea' s  grasp  and  edged  away. 

Thereon  followed  tiresome  diplomatic  tactics 
up  and  down  the  dusty  road,  Vixen  seeming  all 
deference,  Althea  angry  and  dismayed.  Back 
and  forth  the  wicked  mare  coquetted  with  her 
mistress,  declining  the  choicest  bait  of  grass  and 
clover,  but  bent  on  obtaining  for  herself  a  satis- 
factory meal.  Finally  the  girl  sat  down  discour- 
aged, upon  a  wayside  stone,  and  left  the  horse  to 
graze  at  a  discreet  distance. 

Althea  wiped  her  heated  face  disconsolately. 
She  did  not  know  the  road  well.  She  could  not 
tell  how  far  distant  was  the  nearest  house;  her 
only  hope  lay  in  Marcus.  If  he  came  back  that 
way  he  could  catch  the  beast, —  but  if  he  should 
not?  At  the  thought  her  courage  gave  way  and 
she  wept  freely  into  her  dust-begrimed  handker- 
chief. 

Suddenly  as  her  grief  and  alarm  were  gather- 
ing force,  the  welcome  rhythm  of  cantering  hoofs 

101 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

came  to  her  ears,  and  the  powerful  pair,  horse 
and  rider,  swept  around  the  corner. 

Oakley  had  dismounted  in  a  moment,  and  was 
drying  her  tears  with  his  arm  about  her.  Mat- 
ters were  right,  past  questioning,  by  a  sudden 
change.  Even  the  obdurate  Vixen,  tired  of  free- 
dom and  recognizing  a  master,  allowed  herself  to 
be  caught  without  objection.  Cheered  by  the 
presence  of  her  customary  companion,  she  even 
settled  to  her  work  bravely. 

As  soon  as  they  were  well  under  way,  the  be- 
wildered Oakley  asked  for  an  explanation. 

"  How  in  the  world  do  you  happen  to  be  out 
here  alone,  dear  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  knew  ? "  she  queried 
saucily,  radiant  with  happiness.  "  Marcus,  tell 
me  honestly, —  is  my  face  dirty  ?  I  chased  up 
and  down  the  road  so  long  in  the  dust  that  I  feel 
horribly  grubby." 

"  No,  your  face  isn't  dirty.  It's  clean  enough 
to  kiss.  I  only  wish  I  could."  Oakley  reined  in 
his  horse  toward  her  to  be  deftly  eluded. 

"  You  don't  know  how  pretty  you  look,  Al- 
thea,"  Oakley  sighed  from  his  enforced  distance. 
"  You  ought  always  to  be  on  horseback." 

It  was  not  wholly  lover's  prejudice  that  spoke 
there.  Althea's  flushed  cheeks,  her  rings  of  curl- 
ing hair,  her  happy  eyes,  made  her  face  very 

102 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

winsome,  and  her  dainty  figure  swayed  lightly 
with  the  motion  of  the  horse.  She  colored  still 
more  as  she  felt  her  lover's  admiring  gaze  fixed 
full  upon  her.  But  Oakley  did  not  waste  time  in 
admiration  when  there  was  a  mystery  to  be 
solved. 

"  How  do  you  happen  to  be  here  ?  It's  not 
fair  of  you  not  to  tell  me.  Did  you  ever  read  a 
story  of  a  knight  rescuing  a  distressed  maiden 
where  she  didn't  tell  him  her  adventures?  "  Oak- 
ley jested. 

"  I  shall  have  to  make  them  up,  then.  The 
truth  is  too  humiliating.  I  followed  you." 

"  Is  that  the  truth  or  the  made-up  one  ?  "  he 
queried  lightly. 

'  The  truth.     Isn't  it  humiliating  enough  ?  " 

"  It  is  rather  rough  to  be  following  such  a  poor 
affair  as  I  am,  I  will  admit." 

"Isn't  it?" 

"  But  how  did  you  know  I  was  coming  out 
here?  Did  Teddy  tell  you?  " 

"  Teddy !  Teddy's  a  perfect  clam.  I  was 
down  in  the  stable  when  Tom  was  harnessing, 
and  he  told  me." 

"  Althea,  how  do  you  feel  about  this  sort  of 
thing,  anyway  ?  "  Oakley  questioned  gravely  af- 
ter a  little  pause.  "  Do  you  think  it  is  square  — 
honorable?  " 

103 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  To  tell  the  truth  I  haven't  thought  much 
about  it.  I  only  know  that  I  shall  die  if  I  don't 
see  you  sometimes.  I  shall  die,  Marcus,  I'm  not 
joking,  really  die,  I  mean,  if  they  take  me  off  to 
Europe,  thousands  of  miles  away  from  you, 
where  I  can't  see  you  for  years.  Please  don't 
scold  me.  Don't  you  know  that  this  is  the  last 
ride  we  shall  have  together  —  perhaps  the  last 
talk  we  shall  have  together  ?  We  sail  four  weeks 
from  today,  you  know." 

Nevertheless,  after  a  moment,  Althea  set  her 
face  brightly  forward,  determined  to  make  the 
most  of  those  few  last  minutes.  The  two  rode 
side  by  side,  chatting  of  foolish,  personal  things, 
fraught  to  them  with  the  deepest  significance. 
There  was  little  enough  of  brightness  in  the  cate- 
gory. The  one  ray  of  light  in  the  attitude  of 
their  whole  world  toward  their  love  was  that 
thrown  by  Theodore's  blunt  sympathy;  and  on 
this  they  dwelt,  letting  the  more  discouraging  as- 
pects of  the  case  drop  out  of  sight.  It  was  a 
pathetic  postponement  of  the  inevitable,  a  smiling 
pretence  at  mirth  that  was  almost  sadder  than 
tears. 

They  rode  on  through  the  lengthening  shad- 
ows of  the  golden  afternoon.  Suddenly  they 
came  to  a  long,  wooded  ascent,  dark  with  hem- 
lock. Only  two  miles  remained  to  be  traversed 

104 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

before  the  outskirts  of  Underbill  should  be  reach- 
ed and  the  stolen  moment  should  be  over.  As 
they  entered  the  belt  of  shade  and  slackened  their 
pace  for  the  long  climb,  Oakley  was  saying, 

"  So  all  there  is  to  do  is  to  be  patient,  little 
girl." 

The  empty  pretence  was  over  of  a  sudden  for 
Althea.  She  reached  out  one  gloved  hand  to  him 
with  a  gesture  half-appealing,  half-impatient. 

"  Patient !  I  hate  being  patient.  When  I  want 
things  I  want  them  now." 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  if  you  can't  have  them?  " 

"  I  always  have  had  them  until  this.  And  I'm 
not  sure  that  we  can't  have  this  —  if  you  really 
want  it,  Marcus.  I  don't  believe  you  want  to  be 
engaged  and  have  me  stay  at  home  from  Eu- 
rope." 

"  Now,  Althea ! "  said  Marcus,  bringing  the 
willing  Victor  to  a  halt,  "  We've  got  to  have  this 
thing  settled  once  for  all.  I  love  you  and  I  al- 
ways shall.  I  never  loved  a  woman  before  and  I 
never  shall  again.  You  are  the  one  who  will 
have  to  change  if  either  of  us  does.  You  are 
young,  younger  than  your  real  age  in  some 
things.  You  are  not  old  enough  to.  know  your 
own  mind  in  a  matter  of  this  sort.  I  agree  with 
your  father  that  you  shouldn't  enter  into  a  long 
engagement." 

105 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  This  needn't  be  a  very  long  one  unless  you 
say  so,"  she.  answered  shyly.  "  Father  has 
money  enough  for  us  all.  He  might  offer  to  help 
us  out  a  little,  I  think."  Althea  had  brooded  on 
this  matter  until  it  seemed  a  very  palpable  griev- 
ance. 

"  He  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  offer  me 
money,"  said  Oakley  hotly.  "  You  know  I 
couldn't  live  on  your  father,  Althea." 

"Well,  I  didn't  mean  exactly  that,"  Althea 
explained.  "  But  you  could  have  a  chance  in 
the  business.  Think  of  the  help  you  could  be  to 
father,  with  all  the  law  you  know.  You  could 
make  money  faster  there.  Don't  you  see?  And 
then  father  will  be  more  in  favor  of  you.  Don't 
you  think  he  will  ?  " 

The  daring  of  her  suggestion  stunned  Oakley. 
In  his  vain  canvassing  of  ways  and  means,  the 
possibility  of  giving  up  his  profession  had  never 
occurred  to  him.  Finally  he  voiced  his  thought 
in  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  mean,  Althea,  that  you  want  me  to 
give  up  my  profession,  that  I've  worked  for  and 
denied  myself  for  all  these  years?  " 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  what  I  want,  but  of 
what  you  want.  If  you  care  for  me  as  much  as 
you  say  you  do  you  will  be  glad  to  make  some 
sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  making  me  happy." 

1 06 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Oakley  suspected,  for  one  moment  of  vision,  a 
littleness  of  nature  in  Althea  at  which  he  had 
never  guessed  before.  He  was  hurt  and  angry 
and  amazed. 

"If  you  cared  for  me  as  much  as  you  say  you 
do,  you  would  never  suggest  such  a  sacrifice,"  he 
said  bitterly. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  is  such  a  sacrifice.  Instead 
of  struggling  along  for  years  to  make  a  bare  liv- 
ing, you  are  sure  of  that  at  the  start  and  plenty 
of  money  in  the  future.  Then  we  could  be  en- 
gaged, and  I  needn't  go  away  —  don't  you  see  ? 
You  would  have  all  the  things  you  are  working 
for,  without  waiting." 

"  If  you  think  the  money  in  my  profession  is 
all  the  thing  I  chose  it  for,  it  is  no  use  for  me  to 
try  to  explain.  But  when  you  talk  about  my 
unwillingness  to  make  sacrifices  you  are  unfair." 

"  Aren't  you  proving  it  now,  I  should  like  to 
know?  "  Althea  reiterated.  She  was  waging  her 
first  battle  with  her  lover.  In  the  formality  of 
their  intercourse  up  to  the  time  of  their  engage- 
ment, and  in  their  subsequent  separation,  there 
had  been  little  chance  for  differences  of  opinion. 
The  girl  did  not  know  what  she  could  effect 
against  Oakley's  firm  tenderness.  But  on  this 
matter  her  heart  was  set.  She  was  a  person  of 
one  idea,  of  one  emotion,  not  well-balanced,  per- 

107 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

haps,  but  steadfast  in  her  determination  to  gain 
the  end  she  had  in  view.  She  had  thought  out 
her  plan  through  sleepless  nights;  and  she  felt 
sure  that  it  was  feasible  and  the  one  solution  of 
the  tangle.  She  was  sure  that  she  asked  but  lit- 
tle :  simply  to  be  spared  the  long  voyage,  the 
absence.  It  all  depended  on  Oakley's  acquies- 
cence, and  she  saw  that  failing  her. 

"  I'm  not  proving  my  unwillingness  to  make 
sacrifices  for  you,"  Oakley's  voice  broke  in  upon 
her  thoughts, — "  I  hope  I'm  proving  that  I'm  a 
man,  that's  all.  Can't  you  understand  me,  dear  ? 
You  can't,  or  you  wouldn't  ask  me  even  to  think 
of  such  a  thing.  Don't  you  see,  I  should  be  dis- 
honored in  the  sight  of  the  whole  world,  myself 
most  of  all,  if  I  did  such  a  thing?  Do  you  think 
your  father  would  respect  me  any  more  for  it? 
That  would  be  the  last  thing  for  me  to  do  if  I 
wished  to  gain  his  liking.  Your  father  likes 
men  who  can  do  things,  not  men  who  hang  on 
other  people." 

"  But  you  might  consider  me !  Don't  you 
care  anything  for  my  happiness?  "  Althea  reiter- 
ated a  little  sharply. 

"  You  know  I  do,  Althea.  More  than  for 
anything  else  in  the  world,  even  perhaps  than 
my  profession.  I  can't  make  it  clear  to  you,  can 
I,  how  I  feel  about  that?  But  anyway,  dearest, 

1 08 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

it  wouldn't  be  for  your  happiness  if  I  gave  up 
my  profession.  I  should  make  a  poor  business 
man.  My  heart  wouldn't  be  in  the  work.  Your 
father  would  have  to  drag  me  along  for  your 
sake.  But  in  the  law,  Althea,  I  can  do  some- 
thing, some  day,  that  you  will  be  proud  of." 

"  I  would  rather  be  happy  with  you  than  proud 
about  you,"  Althea  murmured  pitifully. 

"  But  don't  you  see  it  isn't  a  question  of  what 
either  you  or  I  would  rather,  dear  little  girl? 
It's  a  question  of  what  has  got  to  be.  I  chose 
my  profession  years  ago,  before  I  even  knew  you, 
and  it's  too  late  to  change.  You  will  have  to 
love  my  profession  along  with  me,  and  perhaps 
you  will  come  to  think  it  the  best  part  of  me. 
Don't  suppose  the  thought  of  having  you  right 
within  sight  and  speech  doesn't  tempt  me." 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Althea's  face  was  set 
hard  ahead.  Her  lips  were  tightly  closed.  They 
were  riding  through  the  valley  now  and  any  dis- 
play of  feeling  was  out  of  the  question.  So  they 
crossed  the  bridge  and  climbed  the  hill  in  silence. 
They  cantered  down  the  drive  without  another 
word,  and  when  they  reached  the  stable  Althea 
slid  from  her  horse  before  Oakley  could  help 
her.  She  turned  without  speaking  and  ran 
swiftly  through  the  stable  and  into  the  house. 
He  could  not  see  that  she  was  weeping  bitterly. 

109 


CHAPTER  X 

Mr.  Harding  relented  at  none  of  Althea's 
pleadings  nor  Oakley's  arguments.  He  had  de- 
cided that  his  daughter  must  go  abroad  and  he 
saw  no  reason  for  changing  his  mind.  He  ac- 
companied his  wife  and  Althea  on  the  first  stage 
of  their  journey,  though  he  had  an  injured  sense 
that  they  were  but  poor  company.  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing was,  in  fact,  already  grieving  for  her  hus- 
band, her  son,  and  her  home.  Althea  yielded 
the  outward  forms  of  obedience  but  was  inward- 
ly defiant.  Her  heavy  eyes  bore  the  marks  of 
long  weeping,  her  dark  cheeks  were  pale,  all  her 
elusive  claim  to  beauty  had  vanished. 

Her  father  noted  these  things  anxiously.  His 
mind,  nevertheless,  continually  wandered  from 
the  perplexing  problem  which  his  daughter  had 
furnished  him  to  others  yet  unsolved.  For  fif- 
teen years  he  had  been  working  toward  the  con- 
solidation of  certain  business  interests  involving 

no 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

a  national  control  of  his  industry.  Here  he  had 
bought  a  factory  entire,  there  he  had  merely 
gained  a  controlling  interest,  in  another  place 
he  had  converted  to  his  far-reaching  views  some 
man  of  mark.  As  yet,  however,  even  in  the  cir- 
cle of  his  own  business,  his  power  was  unrecog- 
nized. He  had  waited  through  all  the  changes 
which  came  to  the  business  of  the  country.  He 
had  been  sanguine  when  others  were  discour- 
aged, cautious  when  others  were  most  hopeful. 
He  had  seen  a  score  or  more  of  combinations  in 
the  trade  rise  and  flourish  and  fall  apart,  and 
still  he  had  judged  the  time  not  ripe,  willing  that 
others  should  experiment  in  his  place.  There 
had  been  something  almost  superhuman  in  his 
patience,  in  his  absolute  certainty  ,of  unlimited 
time  for  his  work.  And  now  the  years  of  pa- 
tient waiting  were  at  last  to  be  rewarded. 

The  leading  representatives  of  the  trade  were 
already  assembled  in  New  York  to  discuss  terms 
of  union.  These  men  were  aiming  at  a  combina- 
tion of  combines.  Many  somewhat  amorphous 
organizations,  as  well  as  several  firmly  incorpo- 
rated bodies,  would  be  included  if  the  plans  suc- 
ceeded. There  was  nothing  new  in  their  scheme, 
in  fact  the  path  had  been  marked  out  for  them  by 
more  than  one  big  organization. 

Mr.  Harding  had  now,  however,  little  doubt 
in 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

of  success.  He  knew,  past  doubting,  that  the 
time  had  come  for  which  he  had  waited  so  brave- 
ly. His  corner  of  the  industrial  world  was  ready 
for  the  big  combination.  It  needed,  more  than 
ever  before,  the  force  of  the  upright  example 
which  he  was  determined  to  set  for  it.  He  did 
not  doubt,  and  yet,  as  the  ultimate  struggle  which 
was  to  test  his  years  of  waiting  drew  near,  he 
trembled.  He  had  staked  so  much  upon  it. 

The  weary  round  of  shopping  went  on  for  the 
languid  and  indifferent  travellers.  Meanwhile 
Mr.  Harding  was  closeted  in  endless  conferences. 
The  wrangles,  the  agreements,  the  stipulations, 
with  which  the  common-place  hotel  room  echoed 
were  never  divulged  outside.  But  nightly  Mr. 
Harding  emerged  from  the  conclave  pale  and 
irritable,  tried  beyond  endurance  by  the  strain  of 
bending  almost  to  the  breaking  point;  and 
nightly  he  told  himself  that  he  was  a  little  nearer 
the  end  he  sought.  He  felt  uneasily  that  here 
and  there  he  was  giving  way  where  perfect  in- 
tegrity would  have  stood  firm.  To  his  con- 
science, he  justified  himself  by  the  thought  of 
what  his  aim  really  was.  When  he  took  his  way 
back  to  Underhill  he  felt  that  in  the  main  he  had 
kept  his  honor  unspotted  in  a  trying  crisis. 

Nevertheless  he  prepared  to  meet  his  col- 
leagues of  the  Underhill  pool  with  nervousness. 

112 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

No  one  would  have  guessed,  however,  that  his 
mind  was  not  at  rest  as  he  entered  the  library 
that  rainy  October  afternoon.  Even  in  the  midst 
of  his  anxiety,  he  noted  with  approval  the  cheer- 
ful contrast  which  the  deep  red  of  the  walls,  the 
glow  of  the  bindings,  and  the  crackling  of  the 
wood  fire,  made  with  the  wind  and  rain  and  the 
downward  flutter  of  pale  leaves.  He  joined  in 
the  conversation  with  seeming  unconcern,  letting 
it  drift  as  it  would.  Mr.  Ordway  was  the  last 
to  arrive,  and  as  they  waited  for  his  coming  his 
colleagues  discussed  him. 

"  He's  as  stubborn  as  a  mule  and  mistakes  his 
obstinacy  for  conscience,"  said  Burnham  with  a 
short  laugh. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Ordway  confounds  private  and 
business  morality,"  Mr.  Harding  said. 

"  You  are  making  dangerous  distinctions," 
said  Albert  Evans,  a  thin,  nervous  man  who 
spent  most  of  his  time  untangling  the  chain  of  his 
eye-glasses. 

"  I  think  only  necessary  ones,"  Mr.  Harding 
replied  serenely.  "  For  example,  I  might  kill  a 
man  in  battle,  but  I  should  certainly  hesitate  to 
shoot  one  down  in  cold  blood.  If  you  stop  to 
think  of  it,  business  is  a  highly  diversified  kind 
of  war,  and  some  things  are  justified  by  that  very 
fact." 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  You've  hit  it,  Harding !  "  Burnham  said  en- 
thusiastically. "  Business  isn't  business  unless 
it's  a  case  of  every  one  for  himself  and  the  devil 
take  the  hindmost." 

"  It's  a  harsh  way  to  put  it,  but  I'm  afraid  that 
it  is  only  too  near  the  truth.  And  we  have  com- 
petition to  blame  for  the  most  of  it." 

Mr.  Harding  listened  restlessly.  He  was  too 
tired  and  worn  for  the  struggle  which  he  felt  im- 
pending. Yet  with  his  customary  eagerness  for 
action  and  joy  in  conflict  he  longed  to  attack  the 
foe.  So,  as  soon  as  he  had  skilfully  brought  the 
conversation  around  to  the  point,  he  told  his  com- 
panions briefly  of  the  meeting  in  New  York  and 
the  opportunity  which  was  in  their  hands.  He 
managed  tactfully  to  make  it  seem  right  that  he 
should  have  left  them  in  ignorance  of  the  project- 
ed deal  until  it  was  almost  an  accomplished  fact. 
He  painted  the  enterprise  in  glowing  colors. 

There  was  the  momentary  tribute  of  absolute 
silence,  then  an  indrawn  breath.  But  hardly 
heeding  these  signs  of  interest  and  excitement 
Mr.  Harding  plunged  into  a  rapid,  terse  and  sys- 
tematic exposition  of  facts  and  figures.  He  even 
touched  lightly  on  the  moral  force  that  a  combine 
rightly  administered  might  become.  His  hear- 
ers listened  in  perfect  silence.  The  magnitude 
of  the  plan  checked  all  comment  for  the  moment. 

114 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

They  were  busy  following  the  skilful  manipula- 
tion of  facts  and  figures.  Burnham  was  the  first 
to  break  the  stillness. 

"  It's  got  to  be  done,"  he  said  heartily.  "  Any- 
thing that  we  can  do  to  make  it  a  go  we  will  do. 
It's  the  time  now  to  lay  aside  any  little  personal 
feelings ;  we  must  all  pull  together." 

The  faces  of  most  of  those  present  were  free 
from  doubt,  full  of  elation.  But  Mr.  Harding 
could  see  that  Ordway,  Evans  and  Theodore 
were  unmoved.  Evans'  lips  were  already  open 
to  speak. 

"  As  near  as  I  can  make  out  a  man  loses  his 
initiative  entirely.  His  business  exists  only  as  a 
form,  a  name." 

"  He  is  represented  by  the  board  of  directors 
which  he  helps  elect,"  a  voice  retorted. 

"  We  do  not  speak  of  an  American  citizen  as 
lacking  liberty  even  though  he  has  delegated  his 
individual  authority  as  ruler  to  a  representative," 
Mr.  Harding  added  suavely. 

"  This  isn't  a  time  to  go  by  analogies.  The 
truth  of  it  is,  a  man  gives  up  his  chance  to  or- 
ganize, to  direct  personally,  when  he  becomes 
part  of  a  big  combination." 

"  But  he  gains  in  proportion.  Think  of  not 
being  affected  by  a  bad  year  or  by  individual 


losses  only  in  so  far  as  they  affect  the  sum  total 
of  gains." 

"  But  you  are  not  affected  by  the  gains  of  your 
business  except  in  the  same  remote  way.  Half 
the  sport  is  gone." 

"  Sentiment !  Sentiment !  "  said  Burnham 
hastily.  "  Money  is  what  we  go  into  business 
for,  if  I  know  anything  about  it." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  the  capitalization  of 
the  company  would  be?"  Evans  inquired  in  the 
pause  that  followed. 

"  I  have  not  the  exact  figures  for  the  different 
companies  "  —  Mr.  Harding  hesitated. 

"  Never  mind  them,  they  wouldn't  bear  much 
proportion  to  the  real  capital  behind  the  com- 
pany," sneered  Evans. 

Mr.  Harding  met  the  issue  fairly. 

"  Why  do  you  assume  from  the  outset  that  the 
corporation  will  be  over-capitalized?  for  I  sup- 
pose that  is  what  you  mean,"  he  rejoined.  '  The 
resources  which  this  projected  corporation  can 
muster  in  time  of  need  are  practically  unlimited. 
There  would  be  little  point  in  issuing  and  paying 
dividends  on  stock  in  excess  of  the  actual  capi- 
talization when  the  projectors  could  control  di- 
rectly and  indirectly  far  more  than  they  need." 

Mr.  Harding's  tones  were  reproachful.  It  ap- 
pealed to  him  as  a  personal  grievance  that  these 

116 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

men  should  oppose  his  carefully  thought  out 
scheme.  He  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  complain 
of  their  slowness  to  kindle  with  the  great  idea. 
He  forgot  for  a  moment  that  he  had  not  done 
this  for  them  alone,  that  he  could  not  have  helped 
doing  it  if  he  had  tried,  that  the  conception  to- 
ward which  he  had  been  working  had  become 
second  nature  with  him.  Every  objection  to  his 
plan  seemed  like  a  personal  affront.  So  he  looked 
up  sharply,  almost  angrily,  when  Ordway's  rough 
voice  broke  the  silence. 

"  It  don't  make  much  difference  what  I  think," 
he  said  quietly,  "  an'  I  wa'n't  never  one  that 
could  speak  in  meetin'.  I  don't  expect  to  make 
anybody  think  as  I  do,  but  I've  watched  the  way 
the  things  are  run  the  country  over,  an'  I've  seen 
time  and  agin  that  they  put  down  the  price  of 
raw  material  an'  drove  firms  that  wa'n't  inside 
out  of  the  business,  an'  put  up  sellin'  prices,  an' 
I  don't  recollect  seein'  any  of  'em  puttin'  up 
wages.  All  I've  got  to  say  is  I  may  be  all  off, 
but  I  don't  want  nothin'  to  do  with  'em  " ;  and  he 
fell  suddenly  silent,  shaking  his  head  gloomily. 

Evans  spoke  almost  as  soon  as  Ordway's  voice 
died  away.  His  thin,  nervous  face  was  flushed. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  agree  entirely  with  Mr. 
Ordway.     If  the  corporation  could  be  capitalized 
at  the  mere  value  of  its  assets,  if  it  could  pay  a 
117 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

fair  price  for  raw  material  and  sell  the  product 
at  a  fair  market  rate,  it  would  be  another  matter 
altogether." 

"  What  would  be  the  use  of  combining,  then?  " 
questioned  Burnham  coolly.  "  There  ain't  goin' 
to  be  saving  enough  from  the  cooperation  to 
make  it  worth  while."  Mr.  Harding  coquetted 
with  motives  and  named  them  euphemistically; 
Burnham  delighted  in  laying  bare  unsparingly 
the  basest  springs  of  action. 

"  Well,  then  the  question  is,"  retorted  Evans 
eagerly,  "  do  any  of  us  want  to  go  in  for  a  thing 
of  that  sort?  We  say  that  the  state  of  business 
drives  us  to  it.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  retrench, 
to  go  slowly  and  carefully,  waiting  for  better 
times  ?  And  another  point  is  — ."  He  stam- 
mered, his  habitual  hesitation  returning  suddenly. 

Albion  Harding  was  guilty  at  this  point  of  a 
strange  breach  of  manners,  but  the  look  of  un- 
certainty and  indecision  on  several  faces  decided 
him.  He  caught  the  critical  moment  and  said 
sharply,  while  Evans  was  vainly  searching  for 
the  broken  thread  of  his  thought : 

"  Of  course  you  all  realize  that  our  decision 
will  make  no  difference  in  the  formation  of  the 
combine.  The  only  difference  will  be  that  in  one 
case  our  little  pool  will  be  inside,  on  the  best  of 

n8 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

terms,  in  the  other  it  will  be  outside,  fighting 
comparatively  alone  a  force  of  millions." 

The  general  had  vanquished  the  opposing 
force  by  simply  knowing  the  critical  moment  and 
seizing  it.  One  of  his  adversaries,  at  least,  rec- 
ognized the  defeat.  Evans  rose  abruptly. 

"  I  may  as  well  go,"  he  said,  with  a  volume 
of  quiet  rage  and  scorn  in  his  voice.  "  I  shall 
certainly  be  out  of  place  in  the  high  pure  air  of 
the  Missionary  Monopoly.  Its  altruistic  atmos- 
phere is  too  rare  for  me." 

He  stood  with  his  hand  upon  the  door,  looking 
expectantly  at  Mr.  Ordway. 

"  No,  I  ain't  goin',"  the  latter  answered  the 
unspoken  question.  "  I'm  goin'  to  stay  and  vote 
against  it.  It  will  do  me  a  heap  of  good  if  it 
don't  amount  to  anything." 

Evans  turned  petulantly  and  opened  the  door 
with  a  look  to  Theodore  for  support ;  but  the  lat- 
ter sat  with  downcast  eyes.  In  the  pause  Burn- 
ham  said  significantly : 

"  I  suppose  you  realize,  Evans,  that  if  the 
'  Missionary  Monopoly '  decides  to  squeeze  it  can 
squeeze  hard." 


119 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  same  evening  which  saw  Mr.  Harding 
trying  to  forget  his  loneliness  in  the  first  taste  of 
triumph  saw  Oakley  in  a  far  different  mood. 
Althea  had  gone,  for  years  it  might  be,  and  had 
left  him  in  anger.  She  had  not  been  able  to  see 
that  he  could  not  honorably  give  up  his  profes- 
sion for  the  chance  of  speedy  advancement  in 
business.  She  had  been  unable  to  realize  that 
Oakley's  fears  on  her  account  were  not  misgiv- 
ings on  his  own.  They  had  parted  in  anger  and 
the  years  to  come  held  unlimited  possibilities  for 
sorrow.  Amid  all  his  forebodings  he  never 
doubted  Althea's  love  for  him,  but  those  last 
words  of  hers  — "  I  shall  die,  Marcus,  really  die, 
I  mean  — ,"  echoed  gloomily  in  his  ears. 

All  day  he  had  tried  vainly  to  read ;  but  all  day 
a  passionate,  pleading  face,  with  big  black  eyes 
softened  by  tears,  and  dusky  cheeks  with  faint, 
soft  hollows,  fairer  than  roundness,  had  grown 

I2O 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

out  of  the  blurred  page  before  him.  The  inces- 
sant dash  of  rain  and  moan  of  wind  had  worn 
upon  his  nerves,  and  he  paced  the  room  uneasily, 
his  whole  splendid  strength  chafing  over  his 
weakness.  At  length  he  sank  drearily  into  his 
chair,  rested  his  head  upon  his  arms  and  fell 
asleep. 

He  slept  for  a  long  time.  The  rain  fell  less 
violently,  the  wind  rose  higher  and  higher,  the 
stars  began  to  peep  out  fitfully  only  to  be 
quenched  again.  The  sounds  of  the  street  died 
away.  At  length  the  eleven  o'clock  train  came 
shrieking  in  and  passed  out  again,  and  still  Oak- 
ley slept  on.  Suddenly  a  door  opened  softly. 
He  woke  with  a  start,  and  turned,  hardly  able  to 
believe  his  eyes, —  Althea  stood  before  him. 

The  lamp  was  burning  low,  but  he  could  note 
the  glistening  tendrils  of  hair  about  her  face,  the 
dainty  trimness  of  her  travelling  suit.  There 
was  a  look  half  of  fear,  half  of  pleading  in  her 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her  face  was  even 
thinner  than  when  he  had  seen  her  last.  All 
these  things  came  to  him  like  a  flash  as  he  gazed 
at  her  intently,  assuring  himself  that  she  was  not 
a  dream.  She  added  to  this  doubt  by  her  silence, 
but  at  length  she  spoke  one  little  trembling  word : 

"Marcus!" 

"  Althea,  is  it  you  ?     I  thought  I  was  dream- 

121 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ing;  but  you  are  flesh  and  blood.  You  are, 
dearest.  I  can't  be  dreaming  this  and  this.  No, 
your  hair  and  face  are  all  wet  from  the  storm, — 
that  can't  be  a  dream.  What  are  you  crying 
about,  Althea?  There's  nothing  to  cry  about, 
now  we  are  together  again."  Oakley  had  lost 
sight  of  everything  but  the  present. 

"  Then  you  are  not  angry  with  me,  dear  ?  How 
good  you  are,"  Althea  quavered. 

"  Angry  ?  Why  should  I  be  ?  I  thought  you 
were  angry  with  me." 

"  You  had  a  perfect  right  to  be.  I  was  a 
horrid  little  beast  the  last  time  I  saw  you." 

"  I  won't  listen  to  such  talk.  Tell  me  where 
you  came  from?  Did  you  come  down  on  a 
moonbeam?  "  A  strange  lightness  of  heart  pos- 
sessed him. 

"  No,  I  came  by  train  from  New  York,"  Al- 
thea answered  practically. 

"  And  your  mother  ?  I  thought  you  sailed 
today,"  he  questioned. 

"  I  left  her  in  New  York,"  said  Althea  simply. 
"  I  just  couldn't  stand  it.  I'm  not  a  child  to  be 
made  to  do  things  this  way.  I'm  willing  not  to 
be  engaged  to  you.  I  can  stand  it  if  I  don't 
speak  to  you,  but  I've  got  to  see  you  now  and 
then,  just  a  glance.  I  must  hear  your  name  now 
and  then  or  I  shall  die.  I'm  not  just  talking, 

122 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Marcus.  Just  feel  my  arm,  if  you  don't  believe 
it.  I  can't  sleep  and  I  can't  eat.  It's  killing  me, 
dear." 

"  Poor  little,  thin  arm !  "  said  Oakley,  kissing 
the  rough  cloth  of  her  sleeve.  "  You  are  right, 
Althea.  It  isn't  fair.  You  are  a  woman  after 
all  —  even  if  you  are  a  child.  They  ought  not 
to  try  to  dictate  to  you  like  this.  Of  course  we 
must  do  as  your  father  says,"  he  added  weakly, 
"  within  reason.  But  I  don't  think  this  comes 
under  that  head." 

They  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  leather 
couch,  talking,  half  with  broken  words,  half  with 
silence.  Oakley  was  yet  in  a  dream  world,  in  the 
state  of  half-doubting  acceptance  of  joy  to  which 
he  had  wakened.  He  hardly  dared  to  grasp  his 
new  happiness  closely  lest  it  should  elude  him. 
Althea  spoke  on  in  little  broken  phrases. 

"  You  see  I  didn't  mean  to  come  here  so,  but 
I  looked  up  when  I  was  opposite  the  office  and 
saw  your  shadow  on  the  shade.  You  poor,  dear 
boy,  you  looked  so  tired  and  forlorn  with  your 
head  on  your  arm!  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  just 
turned  and  walked  in.  Mother  will  think  it  very 
dreadful,  won't  she?" 

"  I  suppose  it  isn't  a  very  conventional  thing 
to  do.  Still  it's  not  so  very  late.  You  mustn't 
123 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

stop.  But  wouldn't  I  like  to  keep  you  for  al- 
ways ! " 

"  I  call  half-past  eleven  pretty  late,  and  I  am 
afraid  father  will,"  said  Althea  soberly. 

"  Why,  it's  not  half-past  eleven !  What  train 
did  you  come  in  on,  anyway  ?  "  Oakley  cried  in 
astonishment. 

"  The  eleven  o'clock  train.  It  must  be  half- 
past  now." 

Oakley  whistled  softly  and  miserably  through 
closed  teeth. 

"  Good  Lord !  I  didn't  think  it  was  more  than 
nine.  I  might  have  known.  It  must  have  been 
that  when  I  fell  asleep.  It's  to  be  hoped  nobody 
saw  you  come  in  here,  little  girl." 

"  I  met  someone  in  the  hall  just  as  I  had  my 
hand  on  the  knob.  I  should  have  turned  and 
run  then,  if  I  had  dared,"  Althea  faltered.  "  But 
I  just  dodged  in.  Perhaps  he  didn't  recognize 
me." 

Oakley  was  silent.  He  knew  that  all  the 
chances  were  against  Althea  Harding's  having 
entered  his  room  unrecognized.  The  daughter 
of  the  wealthy  mill-owner  was  not  an  obscure 
person  in  a  little  city  like  Underhill.  Oakley 
knew,  moreover,  that  the  tongues  of  their  native 
town  had  already  coupled  their  names  together 
in  friendly  comment.  He  felt  instinctively  that 

124 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

her  presence  in  the  Archer  building  would  be 
town  talk  in  a  week,  and  that  the  remarks  this 
time  could  not  be  friendly.  In  a  flash  he  pictured 
Mr.  Harding's  white-hot  anger  when  the  rumor 
should  come  to  his  ears.  Oakley  realized  in  an 
instant  whither  events  were  hurrying  them.  He 
did  not  stop  to  question  whether  it  would  not  be 
better  to  run  the  chance  of  Althea's  recognition 
than  to  link  her  life  to  his  poverty.  If  he  had 
stopped  to  think  the  result  would  probably  have 
been  the  same;  but  in  this  emergency  he  cast  rea- 
son aside.  A  fierce,  passionate  sense  of  the 
necessity  of  sight  and  touch  of  her  filled  his  mind, 
and  he  was  swept  off  his  feet  by  the  rush  of  emo- 
tion. The  temptation  had  come  to  him  in  the 
guise  of  a  necessity  and  he  knew  that  instead  of 
being  sorry  or  afraid  he  was  glad. 

Something  in  the  silence,  short  though  it  was, 
alarmed  the  girl.  The  clasp  of  her  lover's  arm 
had  a  certain  electric  quality.  Her  breath  came 
quickly  and  she  feared  she  knew  not  what.  She 
began  to  justify  herself  brokenly. 

"  I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  come,  but  some- 
how I  couldn't  help  it,  when  I  saw  you  alone  and 
lonely.  Perhaps  he  didn't  know  who  I  was,  but 
I'm  afraid  father  will  hear  about  it.  What  will 
he  ever  say?  I  must  go,  Marcus,  but  I'm  afraid, 
—  so  afraid !  " 

125 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

She  tried  to  disengage  herself  from  his  arm 
but  he  would  not  free  her. 

"  There  is  another  way,  Althea,"  he  said  very 
gently.  "  Don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ? 
Marry  me  tonight,  dear.  Then  nobody  can  say 
anything  about  it.  Nobody  can  separate  us  any 
more  then.  Your  father  cannot  claim  control 
over  my  wife." 

He  was  looking  down  at  her  with  glowing 
eyes,  but  she  did  not  meet  his  gaze.  His  face, 
lowered  to  hers,  touched  only  her  damp  hair. 

"  Tonight?  "  was  all  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  can't, 
I  can't!" 

"Do  you  want  to  go  all  through  this  again? 
I  can't  stand  it,  that's  all  there  is  about  it.  Stop 
and  think,  Althea,  if  your  father  is  likely  to  give 
up  the  thing  that  he  has  set  his  heart  on  because 
you  have  disobeyed  him.  Is  he?" 

"  No,  he  isn't.  It's  all  well  enough  to  say  he 
can't  make  me  go  without  using  force,  but  he 
can,  and  I  know  it."  A  sob  stopped  her  speech. 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  he  can't  if  you  are  my 
wife?  Think  what  it  will  mean  not  to  be  sepa- 
rated again."  The  sides  of  the  argument  were 
reversed  and  Oakley  was  pleading  with  all  the 
eloquence  at  his  command  for  that  which  he  had 
opposed  but  a  few  days  ago. 

"  Yes,  but  remember  all  the  things  you  have 
126 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

said.  I'm  not  thinking  about  myself  now.  I 
don't  care  about  anything  as  much  as  being  with 
you.  But  I  shall  be  a  drag  on  you.  I'm  not  the 
sort  of  girl  you  ought  to  marry." 

"  You  are  the  only  one  I  shall  ever  marry.  I 
don't  want  to  force  you,  Althea,  for  I  realize  how 
little  I  have  to  offer  you,  but  you  understand  all 
that.  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand,  dearest, 
—  the  unkind  things  that  will  be  said  about  us 
if  you  were  recognized.  I'm  not  thinking  of 
myself  —  I  can  stand  it.  But  it  means  a  great 
deal  to  a  woman.  I  want  you  to  see  both  sides." 

A  burning  flush  rose  to  her  hair. 

"Don't,  Marcus!"  she  cried,  shrinking  from 
him.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it ! 
I  seemed  to  be  drawn  here." 

"  You  were  drawn  here,"  Oakley  said  tender- 
ly. "  Fate  was  too  strong  for  us.  We  have 
proved  that  we  can't  live  apart,  now  we  will  try 
life  together." 

"  It  isn't  fair,  Marcus,  for  you  to  suffer  be- 
cause of  my  rashness.  It's  all  my  fault,  and  I 
should  always  have  myself  to  blame  if  we  were 
not  happy." 

"  How  can  we  help  being  happy  ?  I'm  not 
afraid.  But  we  must  decide  at  once.  Every 
moment  we  delay  makes  it  harder  to  go  home." 

They  contended  lovingly  for  a  few  moments 
127 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

more,  Oakley  vanquishing  the  girl's  weakening 
arguments  one  after  the  other.  At  length  he 
wrested  from  her  a  doubtful  consent  and  hurried 
away  to  engage  a  carriage  for  their  midnight  ride 
into  the  neighboring  state.  Althea  sat  in  the 
straight-backed  office-chair  with  her  hands  tight- 
ly clasped  in  her  lap.  She  had  the  feeling  of  one 
entrapped  in  some  snare,  and  in  this  crucial  mo- 
ment she  saw,  with  a  lightning  flash  of  insight, 
her  own  imperfections,  Oakley's  weakness,  and 
the  sacrifices  that  would  be  necessary  for  both. 
There  was  no  escape !  And  yet  —  Suppose  she 
went  away  now,  anywhere,  out  of  his  life,  away 
from  the  possibility  of  bringing  any  trouble  upon 
him?  That  was  the  only  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem. She  did  not  consider  that  her  flight  would 
only  confirm  the  gossip  that  she  might  have 
aroused,  she  did  not  ask  herself  definitely  what 
would  become  of  her.  In  the  background  of  her 
thought  was  the  consciousness  that  Theodore 
was  both  loyal  and  silent.  With  this  sole  re- 
liance she  reached  the  greatest  height  of  unself- 
ishness of  which  she  was  capable.  Without  one 
calculating  thought  for  herself  she  laid  aside  her 
future  for  her  lover's. 

The  lamp  had  gone  out  and  she  was  forced  to 
grope  blindly  for  her  bag  and  umbrella.  She 
stumbled,  crying  bitterly,  to  the  door  and  passed 

128 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

down  the  echoing,  midnight  stairs.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  stood  uncertain  as  to  her  course, —  up- 
street  or  down  were  much  the  same  to  her.  As 
she  hesitated,  the  soft  whirr  of  wheels  struck 
upon  her  ears,  and  a  light  buggy  drew  up  before 
the  building. 

"  All  ready  and  waiting?  "  said  Oakley  softly, 
and  in  a  moment  the  girl  was  seated  beside  him 
and  they  were  off. 

The  clouds  were  torn  and  ragged,  riding  high 
and  swift.  Streaming  along,  they  left  little 
openings,  here  for  a  winking  star,  there  for  the 
high  October  moon.  The  road  ahead  gleamed 
pale  gold  as  the  waning  moon  shone  out,  then 
darkened  into  a  dull  unison  with  the  bordering 
shadows.  A  cold  wind  blew  in  fitful  gusts  out 
of  the  north  and  rained  pallid  maple  leaves  upon 
the  street.  There  was  no  sound  save  the  rush  of 
wind  in  the  tree-tops  and  the  light  beat  of  the 
horse's  hoofs.  On  either  side  were  the  sleeping 
people  of  the  sleeping  city.  It  almost  seemed 
that  these  two  of  all  the  world  were  awake,  and 
troubled,  and  yet  alive  in  every  nerve  with  a  fear- 
ful happiness. 

As  they  reached  the  summit  of  East  Hill  Al- 

thea  turned  and  looked  back.     The  river  gleamed 

cold  between  the  crowding  factories ;  beyond,  on 

the  top  of  the  opposite  hill,  lay  her  father's  house, 

129 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

rambling,  dusky  and  indistinct,  save  for  the 
glowing  windows  of  the  eastern  wing.  The  girl 
knew  that  her  father  was  pouring  out  weariness 
or  trouble  on  his  organ ;  and  she  knew,  moreover, 
with  a  sudden  clarity  of  insight,  what  this  thing 
would  mean  to  his  love  for  her,  to  his  high  pride 
in  the  family  name.  She  had  seen  before  only 
that  he  was  imperious,  arbitrary;  now  she  real- 
ized that  he  had  been  willing  to  deny  himself 
much  for  her  good. 

With  a  throb  of  unavailing  remorse  she  leaned 
her  head  against  Oakley's  shoulder.  It  was  all 
a  pathetic,  impenetrable  tangle,  in  which  nothing 
in  the  world  seemed  sure.  She  almost  doubted 
her  own  identity.  An  hour  before  she  had  been 
Althea  Harding,  in  open  rebellion,  desperately 
unhappy,  but  still  unchanged.  Now  she  was  ap- 
proaching, almost  without  preparation,  the  most 
solemn  moment  of  her  life,  reluctant,  afraid, 
ashamed,  with  a  woman's  fears  and  regrets. 
Oakley,  even,  seemed  strange  and  alien,  and  she 
gained  no  comfort  from  his  presence.  So  with 
the  beat  of  rapid  hoofs  in  their  ears,  the  moon 
now  darkened,  now  gleaming  overhead,  and  the 
strange  carpet  of  fallen  leaves  under  foot,  they 
sped  on  over  the  country  road. 


130 


CHAPTER  XII 

If  Marcus  Oakley  and  his  bride  had  wished 
to  make  a  sensation  they  would  have  been  dis- 
appointed. Underhill  talked,  to  be  sure,  but  in 
a  baffled  fashion  utterly  puzzled  by  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's  attitude.  It  could  not  know  of  the  storm 
of  anger  which  had  burst  on  Reid's  unprotected 
head  when,  in  accordance  with  Oakley's  mid- 
night command,  he  had  broken  the  news  to  Mr. 
Harding.  It  could  not  know  of  all  the  dull  fore- 
boding and  deep  disgust  that  the  whole  matter 
caused  the  calm  man  who  moved  about  so  serene- 
ly among  them. 

A  keen  dread  of  publicity,  a  shrinking  from 
the  vulgar  melodrama  of  any  open  rupture  with 
his  daughter,  a  genuine  and  deep  love  for  his 
child,  and  a  sense  of  his  own  responsibility  for 
this  final  step,  had  together  prompted  his  course 
of  toleration.  He  had  thought  the  puzzle  out 
courageously,  not  sparing  himself,  and  had  de- 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

termined  to  bear  this  trouble  as  philosophically 
as  possible. 

The  situation  had  in  his  eyes,  however,  one 
mitigating1  feature  —  separation  from  his  wife 
would  be  no  longer  necessary.  He  had  fancied 
sensitively  that  she  was  eager  for  the  trip,  or,  at 
least,  resigned  to  its  necessity,  and  therefore  he 
had  concealed  and  sought  to  ignore  his  own 
dread  of  her  absence.  The  first  cloud  of  their 
married  life  had  thus  hung  over  the  last  three 
weeks  before  the  parting  —  a  cloud  which  Mrs. 
Harding  had  dissipated  with  a  word.  In  the 
midst  of  her  grief  over  her  daughter's  rash  act 
she  had  said,  with  her  shy,  girlish  smile  suddenly 
dawning : 

"  It  seemed  to  me  sometimes  that  I  could  never 
bear  to  be  gone  so  long  from  you.  I  was  almost 
as  homesick  as  Althea,  and  I  might  have  run 
away  if  she  had  not." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  wanted  to  go  abroad. 
You  never  let  me  guess.  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me,  Evelyn,  that  you  felt  like  that  ?  "  he  had  re- 
torted in  surprise. 

"  I  was  under  orders  from  my  commander-in- 
chief,"  she  answered  softly.  "  It  wasn't  my 
place  to  question." 

As  he  kissed  his  wife,  Mr.  Harding  realized 
as  never  before  the  rarity  of  their  love.  A  cer- 

132 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

tain,  serene  content  filled  his  mind  in  the  midst  of 
his  disappointment  and  foreboding  regarding  Al- 
thea's  future. 

This  feeling  of  relief  and  renewed  joy  in  each 
other's  society  helped  along  a  somewhat  irksome 
winter.  The  little  family  missed  Althea  sorely. 
There  was  a  certain  awkwardness  in  their  newly 
adjusted  relations  with  her.  The  hands  stretched 
so  resolutely  across  the  gulf  met  but  strangely. 
The  relations  between  Theodore  and  his  father 
were  also  strained.  On  the  first  of  December 
Mr.  Harding  had  returned  complacently  from 
New  York,  and  at  the  same  date  the  papers  all 
over  the  country  had  blossomed  into  head-lines 
which  told  of  the  projected  formation  of  a  great 
combine,  and  hinted  that  the  presidency  would 
not  fall  outside  of  Underbill.  „  This  news  had 
served  to  widen  the  breach  between  father  and 
son.  Theodore  had  not  allowed  himself  to  com- 
ment on  this  action,  but  his  unspoken  criticism 
galled  Mr.  Harding  no  less  than  frankness  would 
have  done.  He  knew  that  his  son  disapproved, 
that  the  painful  explanation  was  only  postponed ; 
and  he  awaited  it  with  mingled  dread  and  im- 
patience. 

The  father  sat  alone  in  his  office  one  afternoon 
in  late  December.  A  little  fire  glowed  in  the 
grate  and  lighted  up  his  snowy  hair  and  keen, 
133 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

thoughtful  face.  Even  this  soft,  uncertain  light 
brought  out  tense  lines  about  the  firm  mouth. 
Mr.  Harding  was  apparently  thinking  deeply, 
though  his  whole  attitude  was  relaxed  and  rest- 
ful, except  for  one  slender  forefinger  which  beat 
thoughtfully  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair.  By  and 
by  he  seemed  to  wake  from  his  reverie  with  a 
start  as  the  outer  door  of  the  office  closed  sharply, 
and  quick,  eager  steps  crossed  the  room.  He 
looked  up  as  his  son  entered,  feeling  somehow 
that  the  silence  of  their  estrangement  was  at  an 
end. 

During  the  whole  autumn  Theodore  had 
drawn  into  himself  in  dismay  and  disapproval, 
fighting  out  the  question  of  right  and  expediency. 
He  had  ridden  far  out  into  the  bleak  country  that 
afternoon,  and  there  had  come  to  his  decision. 
In  a  hard-fought  battle  he  had  come  off  victor. 
On  one  side  was  his  whole  soul's  passionate  pro- 
test against  his  father's  scheming, —  a  protest  not 
perhaps  grounded  on  a  logical  thinking  out  of 
the  whole  question,  but  none  the  less  vehement 
on  that  account.  To  balance  it,  was  his  eager 
craving  for  his  father's  approval  and  sympathy, 
his  dread  of  wounding  his  mother's  love  for  them 
both,  his  knowledge  that  he  was  casting  aside 
his  chance  of  winning  Margaret  Favor.  This 
last,  the  most  purely  selfish  of  the  motives,  he 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

found  hardest  to  combat.  He  knew  Margaret's 
ambition,  and  knew  that  Theodore  Harding,  ob- 
scure and  at  odds  with  his  father,  with  no  foot- 
hold in  the  business  world,  would  have  little 
chance  with  her.  Nevertheless,  he  argued  with 
quaint,  mathematical  philosophy  that  one's 
chances  could  not  well  be  less  than  nothing.  So 
his  prejudice  against  the  trust,  balanced  against 
his  father,  his  mother  and  his  sweetheart,  had 
outweighed  them  all.  He  had  come  back  from 
his  ride  warmed  and  exhilarated,  with  that  fleet- 
ing uplift  of  spirits  that  comes  from  a  quickened 
circulation  and  a  hard-won  decision,  and  had 
hastened  to  Mr.  Harding. 

"  Are  you  busy,  father?  "  he  asked  as  soon  as 
he  entered  the  room.  "  If  you  aren't  I'd  like  half 
an  hour  with  you." 

"  I  am  at  your  service  until  dinner  time." 

"  Then  suppose  we  talk  over  our  affairs.  I 
want  to  see  if  we  can  come  to  an  agreement  — 
about  some  other  arrangements  —  I  mean  for 
myself." 

Mr.  Harding  grasped  the  significance  of  his 
son's  broken  words. 

"  You  mean  that  you  wish  to  withdraw  your 
money  from  the  business  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  do  it,  but  I  don't  see  any 
other  way,"  Theodore  replied  reluctantly. 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

'  You  are  making  mountains  out  of  mole-hills, 
Theodore.  You  are  letting  the  most  quixotic  of 
scruples  stand  in  your  way,"  his  father  answered 
a  trifle  shortly. 

"  I  don't  see  it  in  that  way,  father.  There's 
nothing  quixotic  at  all  about  my  stand.  At  any 
rate  I  have  good  backing." 

"  The  backing  of  theorists  —  the  practical  men 
are  all  for  combination.  I  wish,  Theodore,  that 
you  would  let  me  judge  for  you  in  this  matter. 
I  have  looked  into  it  far  more  thoroughly  than 
you  have.  You  are  at  the  mercy  of  one  side." 

"  I  am  old  enough  to  judge  these  things  for 
myself.  You  don't  realize  that  I  am  a  man  of 
twenty-eight,  do  you?  I  can't  be  dictated  to  in 
anything  so  important  as  this." 

Theodore  had  chosen  an  unfortunate  word. 
His  father  answered  coldly : 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  am  in  the  habit  of  try- 
ing to  dictate  to  you  in  any  matters,  important 
or  otherwise,  Theodore.  I  only  wished  you  to 
be  sure  you  had  decided  before  you  made  so  vital 
a  change  as  this.  Do  you  realize  that  if  you 
sever  your  connection  with  me,  and  so  with  the 
combine,  all  your  apprenticeship  of  years  will  go 
for  nothing  —  that  you  will  be  without  business 
prospects  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It's  not  likely  that  your  cor- 
136 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

poration  will  control  the  entire  trade.  I  shall 
have  some  money  to  invest  and  a  good  deal  of 
experience." 

"  It  is  not  impossible  that  the  American  may 
control  the  entire  field.  It  is  worth  your  con- 
sideration." Mr.  Harding' s  tones  were  cold. 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  can  make  my  way  some- 
where else.  Other  people,  older  and  of  no  more 
ability,  have  done  so  before  now." 

"  I  wish  you  would  listen  to  me,  Theodore," 
Mr.  Harding  reiterated  patiently.  "  You  are 
about  to  make  a  grave  mistake, —  and  all  for  a 
fancy.  You  will  find,  if  you  will  only  wait,  that 
the  American  is  conducted  as  honestly  as  any 
business  firm  can  be.  I  acknowledge  that  trusts 
have  done  more  or  less  to  gain  their  unenviable 
reputation.  But  their  mistakes  can  be  avoided. 
There  is  nothing  inherent  in  their  character  to 
make  these  false  steps  necessary.  I  —  we  intend 
that  our  measures  and  our  profits  shall  both  be 
legitimate." 

"  I  heard  today  that  you  were  over-capitalized 
at  the  start." 

Mr.  Harding  hesitated.  He  would  not  lie  di- 
rectly, but  he  would  give  a  false  impression. 

"  Even  if  that  were  true  —  I  don't  see  that  it 
is  a  criminal  charge." 

"  No,  but  you  have  often  claimed  that  over- 
137 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

capitalization  is  one  of  the  causes  of  the  disgrace- 
ful affairs  trusts  are  always  getting  into." 

Mr.  Harding  retorted  on  another  line  of  argu- 
ment. 

"  There's  no  good  in  going  over  this  ground 
again  and  again,"  he  said  wearily.  "  It  is  plain 
we  can  never  agree.  My  word  to  you  that  this 
corporation  will  be  run  honorably,  or  not  at  all, 
seems  to  count  for  nothing." 

"  Forgive  me,  father,  but  you  overestimate 
your  strength.  It  isn't  in  one  man  to  hold  a 
great  body  like  that,"  Theodore's  tone  was  re- 
spectful, but  the  mere  fact  that  he  ventured  to 
express  himself  thus  was  sufficient  to  incur  Mr. 
Harding's  displeasure.  He  was  determined  to 
be  patient,  however,  and  continued  pacifically: 

"  But  I  have  backing.  I'm  not  alone.  And 
if  I  overestimate  my  power,  as  you  so  consider- 
ately point  out,  you  overestimate  the  power  of  the 
combine.  You  make  a  great,  awful  abstraction 
out  of  it,  a  sort  of  juggernaut,  and  then  if  you 
don't  precisely  worship,  you  venerate.  I  heart- 
ily pity  you  if  you  let  your  superstitious  fears 
influence  you  to  give  up  your  business  prospects. 
But  I  have  said  all  that  I  can,  and  if  you  still 
persist  you  must  go  your  way;  but  you  are  ruin- 
ing yourself." 

138 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  can't  help  it,  it  has  got  to  be,  then,"  Theo- 
dore rejoined  doggedly. 

"  Have  you  consulted  Miss  Favor  in  regard  to 
this  move?"  Mr.  Harding  asked.  He  saw  an- 
other cherished  plan  in  jeopardy.  Margaret  was 
his  choice  for  a  daughter-in-law. 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  Theodore  replied  brusquely. 
"  She  has  given  me  no  right  to  ask  her  opinion 
on  any  matter  connected  with  myself." 

"  You  realize,  I  suppose,  that  your  prospects 
must,  of  course,  affect  the  way  in  which  she  re- 
gards you.  She  is  eminently  sane  and  clear- 
headed." 

Theodore  nodded  without  speaking.  His  lips 
were  firmly  set,  his  clear  eyes  were  sombre.  This 
resolution  had  already  cost  him  much,  and  he 
thought  he  realized  its  full  gravity.  He  could 
not  now  be  moved.  Mr.  Harding  knew  his  son 
well  enough  to  see  that  his  stand  was  firmly 
taken,  that  argument  and  entreaty  would  be  alike 
useless,  so  he  said  gently : 

"  I  don't  wish  to  dictate  to  you  or  try  to  in- 
fluence you  unduly  in  a  matter  of  conscience, 
Theodore.  You  have  doubtless  considered  the 
question  well,  and,  let  me  assure  you,  I  appreciate 
your  sincerity  if  I  cannot  your  method  of  reason- 
ing. There  is,  however,  hardly  time  to  go  into 
business  details  before  dinner." 

139 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Albion  Harding  looked  at  his  thin  gold  watch 
thoughtfully.  The  little  time-piece  had  been  his 
mother's  and  he  still  wound  it  patiently  with  a 
key  each  night,  when  most  other  men  would  have 
laid  it  aside  for  one  more  modern  and  convenient. 
As  he  studied  its  face,  he  thought  that  this  sud- 
den demand  on  Theodore's  part  came  at  an  em- 
barrassing time,  when  his  large  fortune  was  so 
closely  tied  up  in  the  affairs  of  the  American. 
He  did  not,  however,  let  this  trouble  him.  He 
knew  that  his  credit  was  practically  unlimited. 
He  went  on  speaking  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  I  don't  need  to  say  again,  do  I,  how  much  I 
regret  this?  I  shall  miss  you  everywhere  in  the 
practical  details  of  the  business.  I  have  thought 
sometimes  that  you  might  fancy  that  Mr.  Reid 
had  taken  your  place  with  me.  I  think  you  have 
realized,  however,  that  he  only  took  a  side  of  the 
business  distasteful  to  you,  and  left  your  time 
free  for  the  details  in  which  you  excel.  I  shall 
hardly  know  how  to  get  along  without  you,  and 
I  know  that  I  shall  find  it  impossible  to  fill  your 
place.  But  I  want  you  to  understand  that,  hard 
as  I  find  it  to  appreciate  your  standpoint,  I  do 
not  blame  you."  Mr.  Harding  prided  himself 
on  his  breadth  of  view,  his  ability  to  enter  into 
the  feelings  of  all  men. 

The  two  sat  in  silence  in  the  fire-lit  room. 
140 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Theodore  was  touched  by  his  father's  kindness. 
He  could  not  speak.  At  last  Mr.  Harding  broke 
the  stillness  once  more. 

"  I  hope  any  new  schemes  of  yours  won't  call 
you  away  from  Underhill,  Theodore.  Your 
mother  and  I  cannot  get  along  without  you,  espe- 
cially since  we  have  lost  Althea.  We  must  keep 
one  of  our  children  with  us." 

"  I'm  sure  I  hope  I  shan't  have  to  go  away, 
father,"  Theodore  replied  heartily.  "  You  have 
been  very  good  to  me  about  this  business  and  I 
shall  always  appreciate  it." 

Truth  to  tell,  the  two  men  were  nearer  at  that 
moment  than  they  had  been  for  many  a  day. 
Theodore  was  deeply  touched  by  his  father's  for- 
bearance, and  by  the  delayed  acknowledgment  of 
what  he  had  labored  so  hard  to  accomplish  with 
so  little  apparent  result.  The  thought  that  he 
had  really  succeeded  in  being  of  vital  use  to  his 
father  made  the  parting  yet  harder.  He  felt 
aimless  and  adrift  and  lonely  at  the  prospect  of 
relinquishing  the  business  to  which  he  had  been 
reared.  But  even  in  this  depression,  the  new 
comradeship  with  his  father  comforted  him.  If 
this  step  of  his  had  brought  them  closer  together 
it  seemed  that  nothing  could  effectually  separate 
them. 


141 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Theodore  Harding  led  an  aimless  and  un- 
happy life  that  winter.  He  had  not  been  used  to 
idleness  of  late  and  time  hung  heavy  on  his 
hands.  Moreover,  he  had  been  suddenly  de- 
prived of  the  object  of  his  lite.  He  had  truly 
dignified  his  calling  and  longed  to  be  about  it 
again,  and  he  envied  the  men  who  went  to  the 
familiar  work  unhindered.  He  sometimes  even 
coveted  the  chance  of  those  who,  with  only  a 
nominal  freedom,  performed  the  old  tasks  under 
the  thrall  of  the  "  Missionary  Monopoly." 

This  altruistic  body  was  effecting  some  sweep- 
ing changes  in  the  commercial  map  of  the  coun- 
try. Its  inception  had  been  marked  by  a  rapid 
absorption  of  firms  and  loosely  organized  groups. 
Then  came  a  pause;  the  American  was  growing 
wary.  Firms  which  had  declined  the  first  offer 
of  the  big  corporation  in  the  hope  of  a  better 
waited  in  vain.  Here  and  there,  all  over  the 

142 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

country,  factory  chimneys  grew  cold,  and  staring 
windows  were  draped  with  cobwebs.  With  the 
closing  of  the  mills  went  distress  to  skilled  work- 
men and  common  operatives,  and  the  clamor  of 
the  anti-trust  press.  But  labor  adjusted  itself, 
as  it  always  does,  and  other  factories,  better 
equipped,  increased  their  production.  The  foster 
fathers  of  the  American  were  in  pursuit  of  the 
greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number,  and  this 
they  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  attain. 

Meanwhile  there  was  an  opposition  to  the 
American,  unorganized,  to  be  sure,  but  none  the 
less  decided.  Ordway  and  Evans  represented  it 
fairly  in  Underhill.  The  former  Theodore  came 
to  know  well  and  to  pity  deeply  in  the  course  of 
the  winter.  The  man  was  aging  with  forebod- 
ing, prophet  as  he  was  along  the  one  line  of 
thought  with  which  he  was  familiar.  He  had  no 
doubt  that  the  monopoly  would  eventually  absorb 
his  business,  and  business  was  his  life.  His  fac- 
tory had  a  real  personality  to  him  and  his  hand 
had  touched  its  every  bolt  and  eccentric  and 
band.  He  could  not  bear  to  lose  what  he  had 
waited  for  with  all  the  idealization  which  lay 
beneath  the  rough  exterior.  Something  of  this 
he  had  tried  to  tell  Theodore  in  slow,  laconic  sen- 
tences, with  tongue-tied  spaces  of  silence.  The 
younger  man,  differently  bred  as  he  was,  had 

H3 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

understood.  He,  too,  knew  the  charm  of  ma- 
chinery, the  hold  of  a  business  perfectly  acquired. 
He  was  suffering  from  that  lassitude  of  an  aim- 
less life  which  his  companion  dreaded. 

Theodore  offered  much  comfort  in  his  hopeful 
fashion.  He  cited  his  father's  rose-colored  fore- 
castings  of  the  righteous  course  of  the  combine ; 
he  told  Ordway  that  one  obscure  factory  such  as 
his  was  not  worth  the  enmity  of  the  big  monop- 
oly. He  proved  that  a  control  of  two-thirds  of 
the  country's  output  would  suffice  for  the  pur- 
poses of  the  American,  and  that,  this  once  gained, 
it  would  trouble  its  rivals  no  further.  He  proved 
these  things  so  conclusively  that  he  fairly  con- 
vinced himself. 

In  fact,  he  brought  himself  to  a  frame  of  mind 
that  sadly  minimized  the  force  and  made  light 
of  the  purposes  of  the  American. 

One  day  he  met  Mr.  Evans  in  the  street  and 
remarked  that  he  was  not  looking  well. 

"That's  a  fact.  I'm  off  for  the  south  of 
France  for  the  spring,  then  to  Norway  and  Swe- 
den. I'm  going  to  get  out  of  sight  and  sound  of 
business,  if  I  can." 

"  And  what  becomes  of  your  factory?  " 

"  I  have  had  an  offer  from  the  American.  It 
galls,  though.  I  say,  Harding,  you  can  have  it 

144 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

for  what  the  American  offers  if  you'll  go  in  and 
fight  the  trust." 

Theodore's  face  brightened  and  then  grew 
wistful.  The  ownership  of  such  a  business  was 
the  height  of  his  ambition. 

"  I  mustn't  think  of  it,"  he  said  resolutely. 

"  Come  down  and  talk  it  over,  anyway.  That 
won't  do  any  harm,"  Evans  persisted. 

"  Or  any  good  either.  You  can  see  where  it 
would  put  me  with  my  father."  Theodore's  tones 
were  wistful. 

"  There's  no  telling.  Your  father  would  nat- 
urally treat  his  son  better  than  he  would  a  mere 
stranger.  If  you  mind  your  business  he  will 
probably  let  you  alone.  He  doesn't  control  the 
whole  field  —  the  American  doesn't,  that  is. 
And  if  it  came  to  a  fight,  one  organization  led  by 
the  father  and  another  led  by  the  son  would  be  a 
drawing  card." 

"  It  wouldn't  attract  anybody  with  much  com- 
mon sense  —  all  the  money  and  brains  on  one 
side,"  Theodore  smiled. 

1  There's  such  a  thing  as  having  too  much 
money  and  brains  —  of  falling  to  pieces  of  your 
own  weight." 

They  had  entered  Evans'  factory  by  this  time 
and    were    wandering    through    the    basement. 
Even  the  throbbing  of  the  powerful  engines  was 
H5 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

a  pleasant  sound  to  Theodore,  and  the  smell  of 
heat  and  dust  and  oil  as  sweet  to  him  as  that  of 
flowers.  The  faces  of  the  women  wore  frequent 
smiles  for  the  visitor,  while  here  and  there 
a  man  nodded.  Harding  watched  the  familiar 
processes  with  a  critical  eye,  and  examined  a  de- 
tail of  machinery  now  and  then.  At  length  he 
said  longingly : 

"  It's  a  beauty." 

"  You  should  have  it  for  what  the  American 
offered,"  and  Evans  named  a  price  at  which 
Harding  caught  his  breath. 

"  You  see  I'm  not  on  the  make  in  this  busi- 
ness. It's  combine  price  or  nothing.  Nobody 
is  going  to  pay  me  for  the  chance  to  fight  the 
combine,"  Evans  said  ruefully.  "  But  I  should 
like  to  see  you  have  it,  Harding.  I  should  like 
to  know  the  work  was  going  on  even  if  I  am 
shelved,"  and  the  quick,  nervous  voice  trembled. 
< "  Well,  I'll  think  it  over,  Evans.  I  want  to 
talk  to  my  father  and  to  Mr.  Ordway,"  Harding 
said  thoughtfully. 

"  You  can  count  on  Ordway  to  back  up  any- 
thing you  want  to  do,  if  you  should  have  to 
fight." 

Theodore  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  far  out 
into  the  country  that  afternoon.  The  beat  of 
hoofs  on  the  snowy  roads  accompanied  his 

146 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

thoughts.  His  keen  business  instincts,  his  love 
for  a  good  bargain,  prompted  the  venture;  his 
weariness  of  the  life  of  idleness  which  he 
had  led  during  the  winter  also  urged  him 
to  the  step.  On  the  other  hand,  he  knew 
that  his  father  would  have  a  right  to  be 
both  hurt  and  angry,  and  he  knew  that  the 
opposition  of  the  American  counted  for 
much.  The  outcome,  however,  was  inevitable 
with  his  sanguine  temper.  He  told  himself  that 
his  father  could  well  afford  to  let  his  son  alone, 
and  that  he  would  stand  in  no  real  danger  from 
that  quarter.  His  mind  was  almost  made  up 
when  he  rode  back  home  and,  stabling  his  horse, 
went  to  consult  Mr.  Ordway. 

He  found  Miss  Ordway  writing  at  her  father's 
desk  when  he  entered  the  office.  Theodore 
noted,  even  in  his  preoccupation,  a  likeness  in 
contour  of  face  and  in  a  certain  high  common- 
sense  of  expression  between  Faith  Ordway  and 
her  father.  As  he  talked  to  the  latter  he  knew 
that  the  girl  was  listening  eagerly.  There  was 
a  questioning  silence  after  Theodore  had  told  of 
Evans'  offer. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  do  it?"  Mr.  Ordway  in- 
quired at  length. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  wondered  what  you  would 
think.     It's  a  wonderful  bargain." 
147 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  It  may  not  be  such  a  bargain  before  you  get 
done  with  it." 

"  But,  see  here,  Mr.  Ordway,  why  is  it  such  a 
risk?"  Theodore  was  primed  with  optimistic  ar- 
guments from  his  controversy  with  himself. 
"  Of  course  I  realize  that  the  American  can  do 
anything  it  wants  to, —  but  it  isn't  going  to  want 
to.  I  intend  to  mind  my  own  business  and  keep 
out  of  its  way.  I'm  nothing  but  a  fly  anyway, 
in  comparison.  My  insignificance  protects  me." 

"  That's  all  very  well  for  talk,  but  wait  and 
see,"  Mr.  Ordway  commented  grimly. 

"  Well,  take  your  own  case.  You're  all  right. 
They  haven't  meddled  with  you." 

"  Wait  an'  see." 

"  Well,  use  your  common  sense.  Why  should 
a  great  body  like  that  go  out  of  its  way  to  crush 
me?  We've  got  into  a  habit  of  being  afraid  of 
a  corporation  that,  after  all,  is  made  up  of  men 
very  much  like  anybody  else.  My  father  isn't 
likely  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  harm  his  own  son." 
Theodore's  tones  were  eager.  He  was  very  anx- 
ious to  convert  his  friend  to  his  own  way  of 
thinking. 

"  'Tis  a  little  different  with  you,  I  admit.  But 
I  wouldn't  go  to  relyin'  too  much  on  that. 
Your  father  ain't  where  he  can  do  exactly  as 
he  pleases." 

148 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Of  course  he  is  only  one,  but  he  does  have 
a  good  deal  of  power.  And  the  rest  of  the  di- 
rectors wouldn't  be  likely  to  do  a  thing  like  that 
over  his  veto." 

Mr.  Ordway  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "  My 
advisin'  of  you  ain't  goin'  to  do  any  good,  I 
know,  but  I  wish't  you'd  keep  out  of  it." 

"  Well,  suppose  I  do  keep  out  of  it,"  Theodore 
answered  a  trifle  sharply.  "  Where  am  I  ?  This 
is  the  only  thing  I  know  anything  about,  or  care 
anything  about.  One  thing  is  certain  —  I'm  not 
going  to  spend  another  winter  like  this." 

"  There's  plenty  of  openings  for  a  young  man 
with  capital,"  Mr.  Ordway  said  persuasively. 

"  But  not  such  openings  as  this,  with  all  the 
risk.  You  see,"  he  went  on,  repeating  the  old 
familiar  arguments  — "  It  isn't  as  if  it  was  any 
object  to  the  American  to  control  the  entire  mar- 
ket. If  it  has  control  of  three-fourths  or  even 
two-thirds,  it  can  set  buying  and  selling  prices 
and  wages  to  a  greater  or  less  degree.  Of  course 
it  can't  manage  the  output  so  well.  We've  got 
to  make  up  our  minds  to  be  ruled  by  it  more  or 
less;  but  that  isn't  so  much  different  from  the 
laws  of  trade  that  govern  us  anyway." 

"  Seems  to  me  I've  heard  the  other  side  from 
you,  full  as  glib.  You're  gittin'  to  be  quite  a 
lawyer." 

149 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

The  kindly  smile  robbed  the  words  of  their 
sting.  Theodore  smiled  shamefacedly. 

"  I  suppose  so ;  but  there  is  something  in  what 
I  have  just  been  saying.  I'm  not  going  back  on 
anything  I've  believed  about  the  trust.  But  I 
have  more  confidence  in  my  father's  management 
and  principles  than  in  those  of  most  financiers. 
He  wouldn't  wilfully  injure  me,  and  if  they 
should  go  out  of  their  way  to  harm  me  when  I'm 
quietly  attending  to  my  business  it  would  be  wil- 
ful injury." 

Mr.  Ordway  answered  this  involved  argument 
somewhat  skeptically. 

"  It  all  talks  out  well  enough.  How  it's  goin' 
to  work  is  another  matter.  And  suppose, 
through  some  such  '  mistake,'  we'll  call  it,  you 
do  git  up  against  the  American?  You  ought  to 
take  all  the  chances  into  account." 

Harding  hesitated. 

"  I  should  fight,  I  suppose." 

Faith  had  been  scrawling  idly  on  a  blotter 
which  lay  before  her. 

"  How  will  it  place  you  with  your  father  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  He  may  be  very  angry  and  he  may  not.  I 
can't  tell.  I'm  not  planning  to  do  anything  that 
really  affects  him."  Theodore  went  on  eagerly, 
trying  to  justify  himself. 

150 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  But  it's  setting  yourself  up  against  him," 
Faith  persisted. 

"  It  is  if  he  chooses  to  take  it  that  way.  That's 
not  the  way  I  mean  it,  however.  I'm  only  carry- 
ing out  my  own  plans." 

Theodore  sighed.  It  was  all  very  perplexing. 
Mr.  Ordway  was  saying  only  the  things  which  he 
had  been  telling  himself.  Yet  the  existence  of 
any  serious  danger  in  this  experiment  seemed  the 
more  preposterous  as  he  argued.  He  did  not 
waver  even  under  this  discouragement.  Mr. 
Ordway  saw  determination  beneath  his  request  for 
advice.  So  he  said: 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  nothin'  more  about  it, 
because  I  can  see  plain  enough  your  mind's  made 
up.  Maybe  'twill  be  all  right,  but  it's  risky  busi- 
ness." 

"  I'm  ready  to  take  the  risk,"  said  the  young 
man  bravely. 

He  broached  the  subject  to  his  father  that 
evening  as  they  sat  in  the  library  after  dinner. 
He  opened  the  matter  without  preparation,  and 
briefly  announced  his  intention.  Had  he  asked 
for  advice  as  in  his  conversation  with  William 
Ordway,  even  for  advice  which  he  immediately 
refuted  and  disregarded,  the  impression  would 
have  been  happier.  As  it  was,  the  abrupt  and 
awkward  announcement  had  an  effect  of  sullen 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

defiance,  widely  foreign  to  Theodore's  real  feel- 
ings. In  his  relations  with  his  father  the  son 
lacked  that  frank  spontaneity  which  character- 
ized his  manner  toward  others. 

Albion  Harding  eyed  his  son  in  silence  after 
his  announcement.  He  had  a  priceless  ability 
to  see  in  advance  the  weak  spots  in  his  own  plans 
and  the  possible  point  of  attack.  This  move, 
however,  he  had  never  anticipated.  He  had  con- 
sidered all  business  friction  with  his  son  comfort- 
ably over.  Now  his  rapid  thought  foresaw  all 
manner  of  rankling  gossip,  all  sorts  of  complica- 
tions. He  knew  better  than  any  one  else  how 
strong  the  feeling  of  opposition  was  toward  the 
American.  He  knew  that  Theodore  might  be 
of  great  help  to  the  opposition  forces  in  any 
struggle.  He  knew  better  than  any  one  else  just 
how  the  affairs  of  the  American  really  stood. 
Into  his  astonished  silence  his  son  threw  a  word 
of  apology. 

"  I've  stood  it  as  long  as  I  can  with  nothing 
to  do." 

"  Yes,  I  warned  you." 

"  I  knew  it  myself.  But  it  was  the  only  thing 
to  do.  I  honestly  couldn't  stay  on  in  the  Amer- 
ican feeling  as  I  did  about  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  have  never  felt  conscientious  scruples  about 
remaining  in  the  American,  and  I  have  always 

152 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

considered  my  sense  of  right  and  wrong  fairly 
well  developed,"  Mr.  Harding  remarked  coldly. 

Theodore  disregarded  his  father's  thrust. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  seem  to  go  against  you  in  this 
way,  father.  I  wanted  at  least  to  tell  you  of  it 
before  I  took  any  steps." 

"  I  am  thankful  for  even  such  traces  of  filial 
consideration.  But  I  receive  them  so  seldom 
that  they  come  as  a  surprise,"  the  father  replied 
in  resigned  tones. 

"  It  seems  to  me  there  is  some  consideration 
due  from  father  to  son  as  well  as  from  son  to 
father,"  Theodore  said  quietly.  "  I  come  here 
to  tell  you  of  a  matter  which  has  caused  me  a 
good  deal  of  thought  and  trouble  and  you  speak 
to  me  like  that," —  he  was  angry  with  himself 
that  his  voice  quivered. 

"  I  said  no  more  than  the  truth." 

"  True  or  not,  things  are  hard  on  me.  Here 
I  am  with  only  one  thing  in  the  world  that  I  can 
do  and  you  blame  me  for  doing  that." 

"  I'm  not  blaming  you.  You  have  a  perfect 
right  to  conduct  your  affairs  as  you  please.  I  did 
not  understand  that  you  asked  my  advice." 

"  No,  because  I  think  I  have  decided.  I'm  not 
setting  myself  against  you.  I  don't  intend  to 
run  counter  to  the  trust  in  any  way,  but  only 
to  go  quietly  about  my  own  business."  Theo- 

153 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

dore's  sense  of  humor  realized  the  absurdity  of 
his  tiny  business  extending  philanthropic  patron- 
age to  the  American,  but  it  was  too  late  to  take 
back  the  words. 

*'  Your  magnanimity  touches  me.  I  only  hope 
that  the  American  will  always  be  able  to  keep  on 
as  high  a  plane,"  Mr.  Harding  retorted  in  mock- 
ing tones. 

"  You've  no  right  to  make  fun  of  me,  father," 
said  Theodore  hotly.  "  I'm  in  a  hard  place, 
and  you're  the  one  that's  to  blame.  You've  no 
right  to  tie  up  business  so  that  a  man  can't  live 
the  life  he  has  been  trained  to.  To  my  mind 
there  isn't  much  liberty  in  a  country  where  a 
man  can't  carry  on  his  business  without  running 
it  just  as  one  man  or  a  set  of  men  say.  I'm 
sorry  I've  got  to  do  this  thing,  but  I  don't  see  any 
other  way.  At  any  rate  I'm  going  to  try  it." 


154 


CHAPTER  XIV 

All  things  considered,  Mr.  Harding  was 
placed  in  a  trying  position,  of  which  an  irritating 
feature  was  the  necessity  of  justifying  his  son's 
conduct  to  Roger  Burnham.  The  latter  did  not 
spare  Mr.  Harding's  feelings,  nor  pay  him  the 
deference  which  he  expected  from  his  associates. 
He  sometimes  wondered  why  he  bore  the  cynical 
comments  of  his  subordinate ;  but  he  found  Burn- 
ham  very  useful  and  felt  that  he  might  need  him 
still  more  in  the  future.  So  he  met  his  criti- 
cisms of  Theodore's  conduct  with  more  patience 
than  he  might  otherwise  have  shown. 

One  morning  not  long  after  Theodore's  decla- 
ration of  independence,  Burnham  entered  Mr. 
Harding's  office  and  opened  the  conversation 
bluntly. 

"  See  here,  Harding,  what's  this  I  hear?  Your 
son  is  really  going  to  start  an  opposition  to  the 
'  Missionary  Monopoly  '  ?  So  that  young  ban- 

155 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

tarn  of  yours  has  taken  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and 
run  amuck  ?  " 

"  Your  metaphor  is  slightly  faulty,"  said  Mr. 
Harding  with  a  forced  smile. 

"  And  your  family  discipline  —  my  case  is 
better  than  yours,  I  guess.  Better  a  bad  meta- 
phor than  a  bad  son,"  grumbled  Burnham. 

"  There  is  no  truth  in  the  rumor  that  he  has 
started  an  opposition  to  the  American.  He  has 
merely  bought  out  Mr.  Evans.  He  does  not 
mean  to  be  unfilial.  He  regrets  the  step  very 
much.  He  conscientiously  — " 

"Oh,  bother  his  conscience!  —  but  if  it  isn't 
his  conscience,  what  is  it?  He  can't  expect  to 
make  money.  It's  a  clear  case  of  ruin.  I'm  not 
much  of  a  believer  in  the  '  still,  small  voice  '  and 
stuff  of  that  sort,  but  it's  either  pure  deviltry  — 
or  what  you  would  call  conscience,  or  —  look 
here!  Ordway  has  got  a  daughter.  Red-headed, 
heavy-built,  but  a  good  stepper,  carries  her  head 
well  up,  well-groomed  sort  of  girl.  Must  be  the 
boy  is  after  her." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Harding  hastily.  "  You 
are  altogether  astray.  My  son  has  some  quix- 
otic notions  about  what  his  means  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  business  require  of  him ;  overstrained 
and  unhealthy,  to  be  sure,  but  decidedly  vital  to 

156 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

him.  I  cannot  really  blame  him,  if  it  has  be- 
come a  question  of  right  and  wrong  to  him." 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  too  much  to  have  such 
convictions.  A  man  with  his  conscience  under 
his  control  is  all  right,  but  when  it  gets  the 
upper  hands  of  him  he's  no  good  any  more  —  not 
in  business.  In  some  millennium  sort  of  place 
he  might  get  along." 

Albion  Harding  shut  his  lips  tightly.  Argu- 
ment was  useless,  and  such  topics  were  best 
avoided.  Burnham  went  on. 

"  But  the  point  is,  what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  present.  I  have  little  belief  in 
my  son's  ability  as  an  organizer  should  he  at 
any  time  decide  to  enter  the  ranks  of  an  opposi- 
tion," Mr.  Harding  answered  with  some  as- 
surance. 

"  He's  got  a  good  deal  to  back  him  and  help 
him  out.  All  of  the  trade  that  isn't  in  the  deal 
is  swearing  mad.  They'll  swarm  together,  given 
somebody  to  say  the  word." 

"  It  puts  me  in  a  bad  position,"  Mr.  Harding 
said  in  weary  tones.  "If  he  receives  any  differ- 
ent treatment  from  the  other  competing  mill- 
owners  the  stockholders  have  a  right  to  complain. 
And  if  I  serve  him  with  the  same  treatment  the 
public  will  be  on  my  heels  for  my  unfatherly  atti- 
tude." 

157 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE. 

"  Of  course  he  must  be  treated  exactly  the 
same  as  the  others  and  you  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. There's  no  use;  one  can't  pose  as  a 
philanthropist  and  a  financier  at  the  same  time. 
You're  doing  the  financier  act  just  at  present, 
Harding,  and  you'd  better  stick  to  it  and  throw 
up  the  other.  The  roles  conflict." 

"  I  never  tried  to  do  anything  but  employ  the 
principles  of  common  honesty  and  decency  in 
business  life.  All  I  contended  was  that  a 
monopoly  could  be  conducted  on  the  basis  of 
those  principles,  and,  so  conducted,  would  be  a 
valuable  object-lesson  to  the  country.  From 
that  all  this  ill-timed  ridicule  has  sprung."  Mr. 
Harding  spoke  in  tones  of  the  deepest  injury. 

"  That's  all  right,  Harding,  be  an  object-les- 
son if  you  want  to.  Every  one  to  his  taste. 
That's  not  what  I'm  in  the  business  for,  how- 
ever." Burnham  dismissed  Mr.  Harding's  self- 
justification  with  good-natured  contempt.  Then 
he  continued: 

"  Did  you  see  that  open  letter  of  Jaffray's  in 
the  'Criterion'  this  morning?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  didn't  like  the  tone  of  it." 

"  Neither  did  I.  Jaffray  is  going  to  make 
trouble  for  us  next  winter  in  the  legislature  if 
he  happens  to  get  in." 

"  He  must  not  get  in.  We  must  back  a  good 
158 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

man  in  his  place.  With  our  backing  he  would 
have  a  fighting  chance  at  the  nomination." 
Mr.  Harding  had  thought  out  this  point  clearly. 

"  A  man  we  could  rely  on  would  stand  us 
pretty  well.  There  are  a  lot  of  things  we  shall 
want.  An  '  investigation ! '  Nonsense,  what  is 
there  to  investigate?"  Burnham  inquired  indig- 
nantly. 

"  Jaffray  is  always  wanting  an  investigation 
of  something  or  other,  so  that  doesn't  count  par- 
ticularly. As  you  say,  his  investigation  would 
not  amount  to  anything.  But  it  would  create 
a  wrong  impression.  No  amount  of  investi- 
gating would  disclose  anything  out  of  the  way; 
but  the  public  generally  would  think  it  was  only 
because  we  had  covered  it  up  successfully." 

"Who  would  you  put  up  against  Jaffray?" 
Burnham  inquired  in  a  tone  into  which  deference 
would  now  and  then  creep  in  spite  of  him. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  Oakley  for  the  place," 
Mr.  Harding's  tone  was  tentative. 

"  Pretty  good !  He's  young,  bright,  there  is 
nothing  against  him.  He's  all  right  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  trust  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Then,  too,  he  hasn't  much 
money,"  Mr.  Harding  went  on,  "  and  has  prac- 
tically worked  his  way  up.  That  will  be  a 
drawing  card  in  some  quarters.  I  have  had  him 
159 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

in  my  mind  for  some  time  as  a  good  representa- 
tive for  the  American,  either  here  or  in  the  na- 
tional legislature." 

"  You've  got  a  long  head.  We'll  strike  for 
political  power  if  there  seems  to  be  any  need  of 
it.  I'll  attend  to  the  ward  politics.  They're  not 
quite  in  your  line,  nor  in  mine  either,  but  I  know 
the  right  men.  '  Missionary  Monopoly '  money 
shall  flow  like  water  in  the  good  cause,"  and  he 
grinned  cynically. 

"  The  money  will  of  course  be  used  in  wholly 
legitimate  ways,"  said  Mr.  Harding  firmly. 

"  Sure !  That  was  what  I  meant.  Wholly  le- 
gitimate ways." 

Mr.  Harding  was  not  blessed  with  a  keen 
sense  of  humor ;  but  he  more  than  half  suspected 
that  Burnham  was  laughing  at  him.  He  did  not 
waste  time  in  considering  this  possibility,  how- 
ever. The  conversation  had  suggested  a  ques- 
tion which  he  wished  to  ask  his  secretary.  He 
called  the  latter  in  from  the  outer  room  as  soon 
as  Burnham  had  gone. 

Late  that  afternoon  Althea  Oakley  herself 
opened  the  door  in  answer  to  Reid's  ring.  She 
was  pale  and  her  eyes  were  faintly  red-rimmed; 
but  she  was  daintily  dressed  and  forced  back  her 
usual  gaiety  at  sight  of  the  guest. 

1 60 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

As  the  three  sat  chatting  in  the  pretty  little 
parlor,  some  unwonted  air  of  magnificence 
caught  Reid's  quick  eye.  His  gaze  finally  rested 
on  a  large,  softly-glowing  rug  which  nearly  cov- 
ered the  floor.  In  a  pause  of  the  conversation  he 
said  lightly: 

"  So  we've  been  bringing  New  York  back  to 
Underhill  with  us.  What  a  beautiful  rug,  Mrs. 
Oakley!" 

Althea  looked  at  her  husband  with  appealing 
eyes,  and  he  answered  for  her. 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  a  beauty  ?  It  makes  us  look 
quite  sumptuous.  Althea  picked  it  up  at  a  won- 
derful bargain." 

In  spite  of  the  cordiality  of  Oakley's  tone, 
Reid  saw  that  there  was  something  wrong  with 
this  topic  of  conversation,  and  left  it  abruptly 
by  giving  Mr.  Harding's  message. 

The  little  family  dinner,  perfect  in  its  simple 
appointments  and  dainty  fare,  passed  off  pleas- 
antly, in  spite  of  Althea's  subdued  manner.  It 
was  all  charming  to  Reid,  but  he  knew,  unwill- 
ingly enough,  of  the  anxiety  beneath  the  pleas- 
ant exterior,  and  felt  no  envy.  He  was  think- 
ing that  his  liberty  and  prosperity  were  better, 
when  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Theo- 
dore was  ushered  in. 

Reid  and  Theodore  met  but  seldom  of  late. 
161 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

The  genial  friendliness  of  their  intercourse  was 
a  thing  of  the  past.  Theodore  did  not  forget 
all  that  he  thought  he  had  owed  to  Reid,  but  he 
felt  that  Reid  was  gratifying  an  idle  whim  at 
his  expense.  He  could  not  help  feeling  hurt  and 
angry  that  Reid  should  so  lightly  brush  away  his 
friend's  happiness.  So  he  greeted  him  with 
some  constraint,  the  smile  fading  from  his  face 
as  he  noticed  the  presence  of  the  guest. 

"  Have  something  to  eat,  old  man  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks,  Oak.  I  came  up  to  tell  you  a 
piece  of  news." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  doesn't  amount  to  much  at  present,  of 
course,  but  I  heard  Roger  Burnham  asking 
George  Everett  what  he  thought  of  you  for  the 
state  legislature  this  winter.  Of  course  it  may 
turn  out  only  talk." 

"  Nonsense !  "  Oakley  laughed,  but  there  was 
a  quiver  of  excitement  in  his  voice.  This  would 
be  the  first  step  in  a  political  career. 

(<  Well,  I'm  not  so  sure.  There's  lots  of  kick- 
ing, you  know  yourself,  over  Jaffray's  last  term. 
He's  not  so  sure  of  re-nomination  as  he  thinks 
he  is.  I've  heard  any  number  of  men  say  he 
ought  not  to  get  it  again.  I  don't  know  that 
you  would  stand  a  bad  chance." 

"  Perhaps  that's  what  Mr.  Harding  wants  to 
162 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

see  you  about.     He  and  Burnham  were  closeted 
together  a  long  while  this  morning,"  said  Reid. 

"Should  you  accept  the  nomination,  Oak?" 
Theodore  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Haven't  thought  of 
such  a  thing  before.  Of  course  it  would  inter- 
fere with  my  practice."  Oakley  tried  to  speak 
unconcernedly. 

"  You  could  keep  your  regular  clients  and 
come  back  and  forth  more  or  less,  so  that  people 
wouldn't  forget  you.  Besides,  it  isn't  for  long." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  could  afford  to  do  it," 
Oakley  objected. 

"  Why,  of  course  you  can,  Marcus,"  Althea 
said  excitedly.  "  They  pay  you  —  oh  dear,  I 
don't  know  how  much,  but  it's  a  good  deal,  and 
you  get  lots  of  things  free,  passes  on  the  rail- 
roads, and  all  sorts  of  things.  Then  you  can 
come  back  whenever  you  want  to  and  attend  to 
the  clients,  just  as  Mr.  Reid  said.  You'll  make 
a  great  name  for  yourself  and  maybe  they'll 
send  you  to  the  Senate.  I  should  enjoy  Wash- 
ington so  much,  I  know." 

"  Dear  me,  hear  the  child !  "  Oakley  laughed 
delightedly.  "  She  has  got  me  in  the  United 
States  Senate  already.  Time  and  space  and 
ways  and  means  are  nothing  to  her  soaring  am- 
bition." 

163 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  It's  my  belief  the  governor  and  Burnham 
hatched  up  this  scheme  to  get  somebody  friendly 
to  the  combine  in  the  place  of  Jaffray,"  Theo- 
dore said  quietly.  He  did  not  lack  a  certain 
acumen. 

"  Well,  it  would  be  hard  lines  if  I  wasn't 
friendly  to  the  combine.  I've  profited  pretty 
well  by  the  little  business  commissions  it  has 
thrown  in  my  way.  It's  a  good  client,"  said 
Oakley  complacently. 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  that's  all  you  think  of,"  said 
Theodore. 

"  Teddy,  there's  danger  that  you'll  get  to  be  a 
crank,"  Oakley  answered.  "  It's  the  tendency  of 
the  times  —  monopoly,  I  mean.  Professor  Hark- 
ness  used  to  say  so,  and  he  knows  more  about 
it  than  I  do.  I'm  glad  I  studied  political  econ- 
omy," he  added  laughing. 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  convenient  to  get  a  lot  of 
ready  made  opinions  all  pigeon-holed  for  use," 
said  Theodore  drily. 

"  You  didn't  waste  any  time  doing  that,  did 
you,  Teddy?"  Althea  retorted,  quick  to  resent 
any  criticism  of  her  husband. 

"  No,  sister,  I  come  to  all  of  these  subjects 
perfectly  unbiased,"  he  replied  good-naturedly. 
"  But  say,  Oakley,  you'll  be  a  change  from  Jaf- 
fray, with  all  his  rampant  ideas." 

164 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  After  all,  Jaffray  doesn't  go  as  far  as  his 
teacher.  Rubinovitch  says  let  the  trust  go  on, 
and  when  it  gets  unbearable  the  people  will  rise 
in  wrath  and  down  it.  He  makes  it  one  of  the 
factors  in  the  millennium  he's  looking  for,"  Reid 
spoke  idly  and  with  little  interest  in  what  he  was 
saying. 

"  Rubinovitch  is  a  great  speaker,"  Theodore 
said,  with  the  honest,  ungrudging  admiration 
which  he  always  accorded  to  brilliancy. 

"  Yes,  he  knows  how  to  catch  his  audience ;  so 
far,  at  least,  he's  a  great  speaker,"  Reid  com- 
mented with  less  enthusiasm.  "  It's  a  pity 
that  he  isn't  better  balanced.  There's  something 
unsteady,  not  quite  straight,  about  him.  I'm  not 
sure  whether  it  is  drugs,  liquor,  or  something  of 
that  sort,  or  the  insanity  of  genius.  He  got  his 
audience  with  him  that  night  of  the  strike  in 
great  style,  though." 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  insanity  of  genius. 
He  strikes  me  as  level-headed  enough.  A  man 
isn't  necessarily  insane  because  he  doesn't  think 
as  you  do,"  Theodore  retorted. 

"  Of  course  not.     Don't  get  so  fierce.     You 
know  him  and  I  don't.     It  was  only  something 
about  his  manner  that  struck  me  so.     I've  never 
seen  him  except  at  his  meetings." 
165 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

After  the  departure  of  his  guests  Oakley  sat 
alone  fighting  an  elation  which  his  experience  of 
late  told  him  was  ungrounded.  Such  good-for- 
tune, if  good-fortune  it  were,  was  not  for  him. 
His  anxieties  had  increased  throughout  the  win- 
ter, and  an  anxious  wrinkle  had  already  grown 
persistent  between  Althea's  brows.  Three  months 
had  sufficed  to  show  them  that  there  was  leakage 
somewhere,  though  neither  was  skilful  enough 
to  detect  its  whereabouts.  Althea,  accustomed 
all  her  life  to  dainties,  did  not  recognize  the  fact 
that  many  people  never  tasted  grouse  or  dreamed 
of  buying  strawberries  in  February.  The  little 
house  which  her  father  had  given  her  and  had 
furnished  so  simply  and  quietly,  seemed  to  her 
taste  to  be  continually  calling  for  some  new  ex- 
penditure. The  young  wife  always  had  some 
good  reason  for  each  additional  outlay ;  she  was 
always  deeply  repentant  when  Oakley  pointed 
out  her  extravagance,  and  erred  innocently  again 
whenever  the  occasion  offered. 

Oakley  was  thinking  gloomily  of  these  things 
when  a  small  hand  slid  into  his  and  Althea 
nestled  down  beside  him. 

"  You  were  awfully  good  to  say  what  you  did, 
dear;  I  didn't  deserve  it,"  she  whispered. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  queried. 

"  Why,  you  know,  silly,  to  say  that  it  made 
166 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

us  look  '  sumptuous/  and  that  I  got  a  good  bar- 
gain, and  to  act  as  if  you  were  pleased." 

"  However  much  of  a  Blue  Beard  I  may  be,  I 
want  to  make  people  think  I'm  not  a  monster." 
Oakley  tried  to  speak  lightly. 

"  You're  not  a  Blue  Beard.  You've  no  right 
to  talk  that  way.  It  was  all  my  fault." 

"  Althea,  confess.  Don't  you  think  I'm 
stingy  ?  "  Oakley  had  long  had  this  question  in 
his  mind,  and  now  was  determined  to  find  out 
just  how  Althea  felt. 

'  You  don't  mean  to  be,  dear.  But  you  have 
always  had  to  save  and  be  so  careful  that  I  sup- 
pose you  have  got  the  habit.  I  don't  blame  you," 
she  added  magnanimously. 

"  Dear,  I  haven't  treated  you  fairly.  I  haven't 
wanted  to  worry  you,  but  I  should  have  told 
you  more  definitely.  When  I  say  we  can't  afford 
these  things  I  mean  it.  When  I've  paid  for  the 
rug  —  don't  feel  badly,  it's  all  right  —  we  shall 
have  only  about  ten  dollars  until  some  more 
comes  in  —  and  I  don't  quite  know  where  it's 
coming  from.  Of  course  there  will  be  clients, — 
there  always  are,"  he  added  reassuringly  to  her 
frightened  look.  "  But,  you  see,  when  I  say 
we  haven't  much,  I  don't  mean  relatively  to  a 
million,  but  absolutely,  really  not  much." 

"  Oh,  I'll  never  do  it  again,  really.  I  didn't 
167 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

understand,"  she  faltered  in  tears.  "I  didn't 
understand!  If  I  had  I  would  never  have  done 
it.  But  we  needed  the  rug  so  much,  and  it  was 
such  a  good  bargain!  Why,  Ethel  has  one 
which  she  paid  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for 
that  isn't  a  bit  prettier  than  this." 

"  You  don't  know  how  it  hurts  me  not  to  be 
able  to  give  you  the  things  which  your  friends 
have.  And  I  don't  know,  and  never  can  know, 
half  the  things  which  you  want  and  need,"  Oak- 
ley said  contritely. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  so  much.  Only  it  seems 
hard  when  you  are  young  and  want  things  most, 
not  to  have  them." 

"  Yes,  of  course  it  does,  but  we  have  each 
other,  dear,  and  we  knew  how  it  would  be.  You 
knew  that  you  must  do  without  the  things  which 
you  had  been  used  to,  but  I'm  afraid  you  didn't 
realize  just  what  it  would  be  like." 

Then  Oakley  saw  from  his  wife's  face  that  he 
had  made  the  almost  fatal  mistake  of  alluding 
to  the  circumstances  of  their  marriage.  The 
subject  was  never  definitely  mentioned  between 
them,  but  Oakley  guessed  that  the  thought  that 
she  had  forced  herself  upon  him  rankled  in  Al- 
thea's  mind.  He  guessed  that  her  determination 
to  show  herself  at  all  social  functions,  and  the 
dignity  and  reserve  with  which  she  carried  her- 

168 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

self  since  her  marriage,  rose  from  the  wish  to 
prove  that  she  had  not  compromised  herself  with 
the  world.  She  faced  society  fearlessly,  more,  it 
sometimes  seemed,  for  his  sake  than  for  her  own, 
unwilling  that  the  people  whom  she  had  known 
all  her  life  should  think  that  she  had  forfeited 
any  of  the  things  worth  having  in  marrying  him. 
She  merged  her  personality  in  his  own  recklessly, 
passionately,  and  in  return  she  exacted  a  rigid, 
unswerving  devotion.  In  marrying  Althea, 
Oakley  had  cut  himself  off  from  all  the  world 
besides.  He  felt  a  longing  sometimes  for  the 
old,  familiar,  manly  intercourse  with  Reid  and 
Theodore;  he  felt  sometimes,  with  a  pang  for 
which  he  hated  himself,  that  he  had  inevitably 
dwarfed  and  hampered  his  career  by  this  prema- 
ture marriage.  And  he  knew  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  that  they  were  spending  their  quick-ripen- 
ing love  too  lavishly. 


169 


CHAPTER  XV 

With  the  coming  of  the  summer  months  Mr. 
Harding  and  Theodore  were  left  alone  in  the 
house  on  the  hill.  For  days  at  a  time  they  met 
only  at  constrained  meals  and  gradually  these 
perfunctory  glimpses  of  each  other  grew  less  fre- 
quent. Mr.  Harding  often  dined  in  bitter  lone- 
liness, deserted,  as  he  felt,  by  his  son  and  daugh- 
ter alike.  He  missed .  the  healing  balm  of  his 
wife's  presence,  and  the  recurring  struggles  to 
harmonize  imperative  measures  with  only  less 
imperative  ideals  told  upon  him  more  in  her  ab- 
sence. As  the  summer  heat  continued  unbroken, 
and  overtaxed  nerves  grew  terse,  a  breach  be- 
tween father  and  son  became  inevitable. 

The  two  men  sat  at  dinner  one  night  after  a 
dry,  hot  July  day,  Mr.  Harding  in  the  punctilious 
evening  garb  which  no  heat  or  weariness  ever 
made  him  omit,  Theodore  in  spotless  white  linen. 
One  of  the  minor  counts  which  the  father  held 

170 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

against  his  son  was  that,  in  spite  of  a  nicety  — 
which  would  have  been  called  daintiness  in  a 
woman  —  he  lacked  devotion  to  times  and  sea- 
sons. He  noted  tonight,  with  silent  disapproba- 
tion, his  son's  infringement  of  the  unwritten  law 
of  the  house.  He  said  nothing,  however,  and 
the  conversation  went  on  in  a  labored  fashion. 
At  last  there  came  some  trivial  difference  of  opin- 
ion, a  cutting  comment  from  Mr.  Harding,  an 
unfilial  retort  from  Theodore.  Then  the  father's 
voice  said,  in  the  measured  tones  of  his  anger : 

"  If  it  were  not  for  your  mother,  Theodore,  I 
could  almost  feel  it  advisable  for  you  to  seek  a 
home  elsewhere." 

"  The  point  is  past  where  any  consideration 
for  my  mother  can  count.  It  is  no  use  and  no 
kindness  to  her  for  us  to  try  to  get  along  to- 
gether. I  shall  ask  you  for  shelter  only  tonight," 
Theodore  retorted  quickly. 

Anger  lent  to  the  undersized  figure  and  the 
hot  words  an  unusual  dignity.  The  father  felt 
a  thrill  of  something  like  admiration,  but  it  did 
not  lessen  his  certainty  that  he  was  right,  that 
even  before  this  last  revolt  he  had  borne  more 
than  son  should  put  upon  father.  So  he  an- 
swered in  careful  tones. 

''  You  have  of  course  perfect  freedom  of 
choice.  I  hope,  however,  you  will  remember  that 
171 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

I  have  borne  much  before  I  uttered  this  first  word 
of  reproach." 

Theodore  did  not  answer,  but  left  the  room 
with  close-shut  lips,  conscious  that  tonight  the 
final  word  had  been  said.  His  quick  fulminat- 
ing anger,  usually  drowned  in  repentance  before 
his  father's  slower  wrath  had  kindled,  had  once 
more  betrayed  him.  Yet  cooler  thought  told 
him  that  this  after  all  was  the  solution  of  the 
problem.  He  might  live  on  friendly  terms  with 
his  father  if  they  were  not  held  to  the  friction  of 
daily  intercourse.  He  could  not  believe  in  any 
separation  more  serious  than  had  already  existed 
between  them,  even  while  he  packed  his  posses- 
sions and  prepared  to  move  them  to  a  big  unused 
room  in  the  storehouse  adjoining  his  mill. 

He  found  pleasure  in  arranging  his  room,  and 
in  his  new  freedom  from  restraint,  yet  he  was 
far  from  happy.  He  was  not  living  the  life  for 
which  he  was  fitted,  which  his  nature  demanded. 
Affectionate,  domestic,  he  should  have  married 
early ;  he  should  have  had  children  already  about 
him.  He  should  have  gone  the  daily  rounds  of 
a  business  which  he  honored,  free  from  perplex- 
ing conflict  for  a  doubtful  principle.  Instead  he 
was  caught  up  into  a  fierce  struggle,  lonely  in 
spite  of  his  many  friends,  with  no  real  company 
save  that  of  his  dog,  flouted  by  the  lady  of  his 

172 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

love,  and,  he  sometimes  thought,  betrayed  by  his 
friend. 

He  sat  one  night  in  his  dusky  room,  with  the 
wind  blowing  strong  from  the  river  and  a  bar 
of  moonlight  lying  across  the  floor,  and  thought 
of  some  of  these  things.  He  picked  softly  at  his 
banjo,  and  as  he  played  he  gained  something  of 
the  same  peace  from  his  tinkling  music  that  his 
father  did  from  the  solemn  chords  of  the  organ. 

As  he  sat  there,  half-dreaming,  he  heard  the 
big  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  open,  and  Mrs. 
Ordway's  voice  exclaim: 

"  Goodness,  father,  look  at  them  stairs !  An' 
I  ain't  a  mite  of  doubt  Mr.  Harding  goes  up  over 
'em  full  tilt  a  dozen  times  a  day." 

"  Wai,  he  ain't  so  hefty  as  you  be,  mother," 
Mr.  Ordway  answered. 

'  You  mustn't  hurry,  mother.  I'm  really 
afraid  to  have  you  get  so  out  of  breath,"  Faith 
exhorted. 

"  I  should  feel  real  tried  if  we  should  climb  up 
here  and  find  he  was  out,"  Mrs.  Ordway's 
breathless  voice  continued. 

"  He  is  at  home,  Mrs.  Ordway,  and  glad  of 
company,"  Theodore's  voice  rang  out  cheer- 
fully. "  I'm  just  striking  a  light." 

'  You  mustn't  live  up  so  many  flights  if  you 

173 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

want  fat  old  women  to  come  to  see  you  Mr. 
Harding,"  Mrs.  Ordway  said,  laughing. 

"  You're  not  a  fat  old  woman,  Mrs.  Ordway. 
Is  she,  Mr.  Ordway?  I  wonder  you  can  stand 
there  and  hear  her  misrepresent  herself  so." 

"  I've  seen  her  slimmer  and  I've  seen  her 
younger,"  Mr.  Ordway  answered,  "  but  she  suits 
me  well  enough  as  she  is." 

"  Sho,  father ! "  said  Mrs.  Ordway  in  flattered 
tones.  Then,  changing  the  subject,  "  Ain't  this 
a  pretty  room,  Faithy?  I  say,  you're  fixed  up 
comfortable  enough,  Mr.  Harding." 

The  long,  high  room  was  in  truth  attractive. 
The  windows  were  as  yet  uncurtained,  but  they 
were  cushioned  with  crimson.  The  walls  were 
hung  thick  with  pictures  of  animals  or  woodland 
scenes,  engravings  from  Landseer  and  Rosa  Bon- 
heur,  and  paintings  with  lesser  names  attached. 
Lounging  chairs  were  scattered  here  and  there, 
and  golf  clubs,  tennis  rackets  and  an  arsenal  of 
weapons  filled  the  corners.  The  banjo  stood  be- 
side Theodore's  chair  and  a  current  magazine 
lay  open  on  the  table.  The  room  spoke  every- 
where of  a  simple,  wholesome,  out-of-door  na- 
ture. Something  of  this  Faith  saw,  and  said  as 
she  turned  to  Theodore : 

"  It  is  very  pleasant,  and  somehow  it  seems  to 
174 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

fit  you.  I  always  like  it  when  the  room  and  the 
person  go  together." 

The  four  sat  down  and  chatted  idly.  Mr. 
Ordway,  as  usual,  left  most  of  the  conversation 
to  the  others,  and  stared  upon  the  floor  with 
knitted  brows.  Theodore  knew  that  something 
was  troubling  him,  and  shortly  the  matter  came 
out. 

"I've  got  an  interestin'  paper  that  maybe 
you'd  like  to  see.  You've  kep'  up  with  the  busi- 
ness so  fur."  He  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  unfolded  it  with  blunt,  clumsy  fingers. 
Theodore  took  it  and  read  it  slowly,  handing  it 
back  at  length  with  a  grim  smile. 

"  Pointed  at  least.  What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

Ordway  shoved  forward  his  chin  in  an  ag- 
gressive way  of  his  own. 

"What  do  you  suppose?"  he  said  doggedly. 
"  Do  you  think  I'm  goin'  to  give  up  what  I've 
worked  for  all  my  life  at  the  word  of  a  concern 
like  this?" 

The  words  and  the  face  were  defiant,  but  the 
voice  shook.  Theodore  knew  that  the  outer 
resolution  covered  a  hidden  despair.  But  he  ig- 
nored the  ill-concealed  emotion. 

"  So  they've  written  you  before?  " 

'''  Yes,  and  I  didn't  answer  it.     It  warn't  busi- 

175 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ness-like,  I  suppose,  but  I  couldn't  seem  to  bring 
myself  to  it.  There  wasn't  nothin'  to  say.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  sell  to  'em,  at  that  price  or  any 
other.  I  suppose  the  letter  means  that  they  will 
cut  selling  prices  in  my  line." 

"  Yes,  can  you  stand  it  ?  " 

"  I  can  for  awhile.  I  ain't  makin'  much  now, 
but  I  could  clear  considerable  less  an'  still  keep 
my  head  above  water."  There  was  a  ring  of  de- 
termination, in  the  rough  voice. 

"  You  haven't  so  much  outgo  as  a  man  like 
Burnham,  for  instance." 

"  I  was  tellin'  Faithy  comin'  along  that  I  was 
glad  to  have  'em  come  out  this  way.  I've  got 
fidgety  waitin'  and  wonderin*  what  they'll  do. 
Now  the  fight's  on  it  seems  good.  I  feel  just 
like  it.  There  ain't  much  use  in  it,  I  s'pose; 
but  there,  who  knows  ?  Sometimes  big  concerns 
go  all  to  smash  in  a  minute.  I  mean  to  fix  things 
so't  mother  will  be  all  right;  an'  Faith  can  look 
after  herself  any  time.  Then  I'm  goin'  to  sail 
in.  It's  a  rascally  business,  that's  what  it  is,  and 
there  ain't  any  reason  that  I  can  see  why  it  should 
rule  the  country.  There's  one  man,  if  he  ain't 
a  rich  one  an'  not  of  much  account,  who  ain't 
goin'  to  be  trod  on." 

A  thoughtful  silence  followed  Ordway's 
176 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

speech.  Then  he  said,  making  a  visible  effort  at 
cheerfulness : 

"  Wai,  there's  nothin'  to  do  but  keep  a  stiff 
upper  lip." 

Harding  looked  at  the  scarred  and  workworn 
face  before  him  —  a  face  which  bore  everywhere 
the  traces  of  wearing  toil.  Anger  flared  up  in 
his  heart  that  his  father,  reared  to  the  easy  things 
of  life,  should  embitter  this  late  and  hard- won 
prosperity.  He  felt,  however,  that  Mr.  Ordway 
wished  to  change  the  subject,  and  turning  to 
Faith,  said  lightly: 

"  You  like  dogs,  I  know,  Miss  Ordway.  Here 
are  some  splendid  pictures  of  prize-winners  in 
this  magazine." 

The  two  heads,  the  auburn  and  the  black,  were 
bent  over  the  paper  when  a  light,  uncertain  step 
sounded  on  the  stair  and  Mrs.  Harding  stood, 
slender  and  girlish  and  undecided  in  the  door- 
way. 

Theodore  rose  from  his  desk  with  a  startled 
"Mother!"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ordway  half-rose 
and  looked  at  each  other  in  embarrassment. 
Faith  alone,  after  a  glance  over  her  shoulder, 
went  on  turning  the  leaves  of  the  magazine. 

Harding  regained  his  poise  in  an  instant's  time 
and  went  through  the  necessary  introductions 
easily  enough.  His  first  thought  had  been  of 
177 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

some  calamity,  his  next  that  the  fact  that  he  had 
left  home  could  now  no  longer  be  concealed  from 
his  mother.  There  was  no  chance  for  explana- 
tion, however,  while  the  Ordways  stayed.  This 
they  did  but  a  few  minutes  longer.  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing's  manner,  though  not  lacking  in  courtesy  or 
even  in  cordiality,  did  not  invite  a  longer  call. 

When  at  last  the  outer  door  closed  behind 
them,  Mrs.  Harding  leaned  forward  in  her  chair 
and  grasped  her  son's  wrist  tightly. 

"  Tell  me,  Theodore,"  she  said  tensely,  hardly 
above  a  whisper,  "  Is  it  that  girl  ?  " 

Theodore  gazed  at  her,  with  his  mouth  slightly 
open  in  surprise  and  bewilderment. 

"  Is  what  —  what  girl  ?  "  he  stammered  finally, 
with  no  slightest  glimmer  of  her  meaning. 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I  might  have  known  all  along 
that  it  was  something  more  than  principle  and 
conviction  that  made  you  do  it,"  she  said  chok- 
ingly. 

Theodore  at  last  caught  some  inkling  of  her 
meaning. 

"  Oh,  you  mean  have  I  got  at  odds  with  father 
on  Miss  Ordway's  account  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  that  you  had  quarreled 
with  your  father  about  her;  but  I  thought  you 
might  have  taken  up  with  her  father's  side  on 
her  account,"  Mrs.  Harding  faltered. 

178 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Nonsense,  mother !  "  Theodore  laughed  in  a 
relieved  tone.  "  I  hardly  know  Miss  Ordway, 
honestly.  Besides,  she  is  Reid's,  along  with 
others,  if  he  chooses  to  take  her.  I  thought  you 
knew  who  I  cared  about." 

"  But  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  something  of 
the  kind  when  I  saw  you  there  together  as  I 
came  up  the  stairs.  Oh,  Theodore,  I  could  bear 
anything  but  that !  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  feel  that  way,  mother/' 
Theodore  answered  stoutly.  "  She  is  one  of  the 
finest  girls  I  ever  met.  She  is  just  as  much  of  a 
lady  as  Althea." 

"  I  don't  see  how  she  can  be,  with  that  awful 
father  and  mother." 

"  They're  good,  kind  people,  and  they  are  more 
my  sort  than  the  people  up  on  the  Hill.  They 
were  always  a  cut  above  me.  I've  found  my 
level  at  last,"  replied  Theodore. 

"  I  feel  some  way  as  if  this  awful  break  be- 
tween you  and  your  father  were  all  my  fault. 
If  I  had  stayed  at  home  it  might  never  have  come 
about."  Mrs.  Harding  was  very  near  to  tears 
as  she  reproached  herself. 

"  You  mustn't  say  that,  mother.  Father  and 
I  are  really  no  further  apart  than  we  have  been 
most  of  the  time  for  ever  so  long.  We  are  fac- 
179 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ing  matters  fairly,  that's  all.  There  was  no  use 
trying  to  keep  on  that  way." 

"  How  am  I  going  to  bear  it,  Theodore,  to 
have  you  away?  It  was  hard  when  you  were  at 
college  and  I  knew  it  was  only  for  a  little  while ; 
but  this!  — "  Tears  had  come  in  earnest  now. 

"  Don't,  mother,"  said  Theodore,  kneeling  be- 
side her  chair  and  putting  an  arm  about  her. 
"  I  shall  come  up  and  have  tea  with  you  every 
afternoon  and  have  an  hour's  talk  with  you;  and 
you  will  come  and  see  me  whenever  you  are  down 
town.  And  my  father  and  I  can  meet  pleas- 
antly now  and  then.  It's  a  great  deal  better  than 
the  old  way,  believe  me.  If  I  had  married  I 
couldn't  have  stayed  at  home  with  you." 

"  But  that  would  have  been  different.  It 
would  have  been  natural.  Then  I  shouldn't  have 
had  to  think  of  you  alone  here.  You  weren't 
meant  to  live  alone,  Theodore."  Theodore  gave 
no  sign  that  he  felt  the  truth  of  this  remark 
keenly.  His  voice  was  steady  and  cheerful  as 
he  said : 

"  Oh,  I  get  along  nicely.  I  have  Dave.  Don't 
you  worry  about  me,  mother.  Must  you  go?" 
he  added,  as  Mrs.  Harding  picked  up  her  light 
wrap. 

"  Yes ;  I  told  Harvey  to  be  here  at  ten.  I've 
hardly  seen  you,  dear  boy.  I  wanted  to  persuade 

1 80 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

you  to  give  up  this  wild  scheme.  Much  as  I  ad- 
mire you  for  standing  by  your  principles  I  can't 
help  seeing  that  you  are  doing  yourself  a  great 
harm.  Come  back  with  me  to  Old  Point  Harbor 
Wednesday  and  think  things  over.  Margaret 
has  been  very  gentle  and  thoughtful  lately.  Per- 
haps — "  and  she  paused  suggestively. 

"  No,  mother,  there's  no  use.  Margaret 
doesn't  like  anything  I  do.  I  should  make  some 
mistake.  I  can  never  suit  her." 

"  She  is  unsettled  and  unhappy,  Teddy,  and 
doesn't  know  her  own  mind.  Be  patient." 

"  I'm  tired  of  being  patient.  If  there  was  any 
hope  for  me, —  but  there  isn't.  When  is  she  go- 
ing to  know  her  own  mind  ?  She's  twenty- four, 
and  has  had  this  subject  before  her  for  six  or 
eight  years." 

Mrs.  Harding  saw  that  he  was  in  no  mood  for 
comfort.  So  she  took  her  leave  after  appoint- 
ing a  meeting  for  the  next  day.  Then  Theodore 
went  back  to  his  chair  and  clashed  his  banjo 
strings  until  Dave  growled  in  his  sleep  and  shook 
his  silken  ears.  Finally  a  string  broke  with  a 
twang,  and  Theodore  laid  down  the  instrument 
just  as  he  heard  still  another  step  on  the  stairs. 

His  visitors  had  been  of  an  unexpected  sort 
this  evening  and  this  last  was  no  less  so.  Fran- 
cis Reid  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  intruding 
181 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

his  company  on  his  friend  of  late,  so  Harding 
greeted  him  with  no  little  surprise. 

Reid  sank  into  a  comfortable  chair  and  gazed 
about  him  lazily. 

"  I'm  tired  as  a  dog,"  he  said  in  his  slow  tones, 
"  but  somehow  I  can't  sleep.  I  saw  your  light 
as  I  was  wandering  about  and  thought  I  would 
come  up.  Cosy  here,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  I  like  it.  I've  been  having  a  regular  recep- 
tion here  tonight.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ordway  and 
Miss  Ordway,  my  mother,  and  now  you." 

"  Then  your  mother  is  in  town?  " 

"  Yes,  she  came  up  for  a  few  days.  She  is 
never  really  content  away  from  Underhill.  But 
she  is  going  back  Wednesday." 

"  Why,  then  — "  began  Reid,  and  paused. 

"  You  and  my  father  are  going  down  for  a 
fortnight,  aren't  you  ?  "  Theodore  asked,  with  as 
much  ease  as  he  could  muster. 

"  Yes,  I  was  thinking  that  we  would  probably 
go  down  when  Mrs.  Harding  does.  Why  don't 
you  come  too,  Teddy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  too  busy.  Besides,  there  isn't  much 
sense  in  my  going.  In  fact,  I  think  I  would 
rather  stay  here." 

"  You  ought  to  take  some  sort  of  a  vacation." 

"  I  shall  take  mine  later.  A  hunting  trip  in 
the  fall  suits  me  better  than  loafing  around  sum- 

182 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

mer  resorts,"  Theodore  answered  a  little 
brusquely. 

"  That  would  be  pretty  good  fun.     Deer  ?  " 

"Yes;  it's  great." 

"  Let  me  know  when  you  are  going  and  per- 
haps I'll  join  you,  if  you  care  for  a  companion." 

"  Miss  Favor  is  at  the  shore  with  your  mother 
and  sister,  isn't  she  ? "  Reid  queried,  after  a 
pause.  Then  he  felt  anger  and  scorn  of  himself 
that  he  had  asked  a  question  whose  answer  he 
knew  so  well.  Theodore  responded  somewhat 
coldly.  Their  intercourse  was  continually  com- 
ing upon  just  such  embarrassing  moments.  In 
truth,  he  felt  but  little  eagerness  for  the  proffered 
company  on  his  trip  into  the  woods. 


183 


CHAPTER   XVI 

That  autumn  brought  so  much  trouble  and  per- 
plexity to  Theodore  Harding  that  he  needed  his 
hunting  trip  long  before  it  came.  September 
and  October  were  anxious  months  to  the  whole 
family,  darkened  as  they  were  by  Althea's  serious 
illness.  She  hovered  on  the  borderland  of  life 
for  weeks,  and  only  came  back  hesitatingly  at 
last.  During  this  common  anxiety  Mr.  Harding 
and  his  son  met  as  friends.  Their  thoughts  were 
so  preoccupied  that  both  were  unmindful  when 
together  of  the  fact  that  the  big  national  organ- 
ization was  still  pressing  its  insignificant  rival, 
William  Ordway,  closely,  and  that  Theodore  was 
increasingly  active  in  the  affairs  of  the  opposi- 
tion. 

Theodore  was  in  fact  gradually  outgrowing 
his  hope  of  the  spring,  that  he  might  be  allowed 
to  exist  peacefully  alongside  the  American.  His 
affairs  were  prosperous  enough,  but  he  had  come 

184 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

to  feel  that  this  good  fortune  was  permitted  by 
the  American  rather  than  wrested  from  it.  He 
had  a  growing  sense  that  the  combine  might  not 
always  be  so  complacent. 

The  American  did  not  lack  certain  encourage- 
ments through  the  autumn  months.  It  had 
passed  through  the  first  and  most  trying  year  of 
its  history  without  failure.  It  had  gained  a  local 
victory  in  electing  its  representative  to  the  state 
legislature.  In  spite  of  the  apathy  which  anxiety 
lent  Oakley,  and  even  Mr.  Harding,  the  latter 
fact  had  somehow  come  to  pass.  Burnham 
could  have  told  how  with  a  reasonable  amount  of 
detail;  his  superior,  however,  did  not  question 
him.  There  was  a  large  sum  for  campaign  ex- 
penses, to  which  the  American  contributed,  un- 
protestingly,  its  quota.  Roger  Burnham  was 
gaining  power  as  the  months  passed.  Wholly 
unrecognized  in  the  administration  of  the  big 
monopoly,  he  was  yet  its  president's  most  trusted 
agent.  Reid  alone  knew  of  the  interviews 
which  the  two  men  held  daily;  he  alone  guessed 
a  tithe  of  the  commissions  which  Burnham  per- 
formed. What  Reid  knew  of  his  chief's  rela- 
tions to  the  subordinate  he  disapproved, —  he 
was  in  fact  beginning  to  see  Mr.  Harding  more 
clearly,  stripped  of  the  glamor  which  had  at  first 
surrounded  him. 

185 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

This  brought  him  nearer  toward  sympathy 
with  Theodore.  In  fact,  they  set  out  upon  their 
hunting  trip  with  a  frank  enjoyment  of  each  oth- 
er's society  which  they  had  not  felt  for  months. 
As  Underhill  and  Margaret  Favor  and  the 
American  slipped  further  and  further  behind 
them,  their  reserve  was  dissipated  in  the  light- 
hearted  joy  of  their  outing. 

The  weather  was  almost  summer-like.  The 
grey  boughs  of  the  leafless  trees  had  a  glint  of 
green  like  that  of  April.  The  waters  of  the 
woodland  lakes  glimmered  pearl-like  and  tran- 
quil as  on  summer  mornings.  There  was  the 
odor  of  pine  smoke  in  the  air  and  a  pale  blue  haze 
hung  over  the  distant  hills.  As  they  slowly 
penetrated  farther  into  the  woods,  the  stations 
grew  more  primitive,  the  character  of  the  coun- 
try more  unvarying  in  its  monotony  of  hemlock, 
until  at  length  they  reached  the  homely  good 
cheer  of  the  big  inn  which  formed  the  terminus 
of  the  railroad. 

They  aimed,  however,  for  a  camp  twenty  miles 
farther  in  the  woods,  and  were  dismayed  to  find 
that  no  guide  was  available  for  their  tramp.  The 
landlord  advised  them  to  wait  at  the  hostelry,  but 
this  they  were  loth  to  do.  Theodore  had  been 
over  the  route  before,  and  thought  he  might  be 
able  to  find  the  way  with  the  help  of  a  compass. 

1 86 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Reid  minimized  the  difficulties,  as  the  man  un- 
familiar with  the  big  woods  is  likely  to  do.  At 
length,  when  they  found  that  the  camp  was 
amply  stocked  with  provisions  and  that  no  pack- 
ing would  be  necessary,  they  decided  to  push  on 
at  once.  So  at  noon  they  were  seated  in  a  dry 
hollow  under  a  pine,  far  upon  their  journey. 
The  needles  of  countless  seasons  made  a  springy 
cushion,  and  they  rested  after  their  luncheon, 
watching  the  green  boughs  wave  back  and  forth 
against  the  sky. 

"  We  must  have  made  three  miles  an  hour  — 
we've  found  it  pretty  easy  walking  so  far.  We 
can  rest  an  hour  and  have  four  hours  to  do  the 
other  eleven  miles  in.  Then  we'll  get  there  be- 
fore dark,"  Reid  estimated. 

"  Yes,  and  won't  it  be  great,  getting  there ! 
It's  a  fine  place,  Frank.  There's  a  big  fireplace 
in  the  main  room  and  a  stove  in  the  little  cook- 
room.  We'll  have  a  roaring  fire  in  the  fire- 
place, and  stretch  ourselves  in  the  bunks,  and  just 
doze.  There's  nothing  like  it.  You  don't  want 
to  talk  or  read  or  do  anything  but  look  at  the 
fire  and  go  to  sleep  and  wake  up  and  look  at  the 
fire  and  go  to  sleep  again.  I  believe  this  com- 
pass needle  is  screwed  too  tight,"  he  broke  off 
abruptly,  as  he  turned  the  little  toy  about  in  his 
fingers.  "  See  how  slowly  it  moves !  "  He  pried 
187 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

out  the  glass,  and  turned  the  tiny  screw  with  his 
knife  blade. 

Just  at  that  moment  Reid,  who  lay  stretched 
at  full  length  by  Theodore's  elbow,  turned  over. 
Theodore's  "  Look  out !  "  came  a  moment  too 
late.  Reid  hit  his  friend's  arm  and  the  delicate 
machine  was  upset. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a 
speechless  moment.  What  chance  was  there  of 
finding  the  tiny  bit  of  magnetic  iron  among  the 
thousands  of  brown  pine  needles! 

"Oh,  thunder!"  groaned  Theodore.  "Why 
didn't  I  know  enough  to  let  the  thing  alone?  " 

Reid  indulged  in  no  reproaches.  "  I  didn't 
know  I  was  so  near,"  was  all  he  said.  "  Don't 
stir.  It  must  have  fallen  right  here." 

Reid  hunted  breathlessly,  then  the  other  took 
his  turn,  then  both  together  searched,  sifting  the 
leaves  deeper  and  wider  in  their  hopeless  quest. 
Finally  they  paused  as  by  common  consent  and 
looked  at  each  other. 

"  It's  no  use,  Teddy,"  said  Reid  gently.  "  It's 
gone.  We've  got  to  make  the  best  of  it  without 
it.  The  sun  is  shining,  at  any  rate." 

''  Yes,  and  it's  two  o'clock.  We  must  go  on, 
if  we  don't  go  back." 

"  Oh,  we'd  better  keep  on.  We  can  strike 
north  well  enough  by  the  sun." 

1 88 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

So  the  two  faced  toward  the  unknown  forest 
and  pushed  on  briskly. 

When  the  sun,  all  too  soon,  sank  red  behind 
the  evergreens,  darkness  fell  rapidly  over  two 
weary  men,  plodding  through  what  seemed  to  be 
a  hemlock  swamp.  The  autumn  had  been  very 
dry,  and  there  was  no  water  to  turn  them  aside, 
no  bog  to  entrap  them.  But  they  sank  above 
their  ankles  here  and  there  in  the  dry,  white 
spagnum,  tripped  upon  roots  and  skirted  deep 
holes  where,  it  was  evident,  water  habitually  lin- 
gered. 

"  This  looks  as  if  it  might  be  near  Beaver 
Pond.  If  it  is,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  skirt  the 
west  shore  until  we  come  to  the  camp.  Remem- 
ber how  it  looked  on  the  map?"  said  Theodore 
cheerfully,  adding,  "  We've  certainly  been 
twenty  miles." 

"  Forty,  at  least,"  Reid  answered  in  tones 
which  he  tried  to  make  light.  Harding  eyed 
him  sharply. 

"  Look  here,  Frank !  I'm  afraid  you're  done 
up.  You  look  pretty  white.  This  sort  of  thing 
is  different  from  any  tramping  you're  used  to. 
I  was  stupid  not  to  realize  that  you're  not  hard- 
ened to  it  as  I  am.  We  ought  to  have  rested 
more." 

189 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Reid's  face  was  drawn  and  haggard,  but  he 
answered  bravely : 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right.  We  haven't  got  time  to 
rest  if  we're  going  to  make  camp  tonight." 

They  plodded  along  in  silence  for  some  fif- 
teen minutes  more.  Then  the  ground  gradu- 
ally began  to  ascend.  Theodore  stopped. 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  camp  here,"  he  said  in 
decisive  tones.  "  There's  no  use  in  going  it 
blind.  When  it  comes  morning  we  can  climb  a 
tree  and  get  a  look  about  us." 

Reid  had  sunk  wearily  to  the  ground. 

"  Shall  we  build  a  fire?  "  he  said. 

"  Better  not,  I  guess,"  Theodore  answered. 
"  We  might  have  all  the  woods  ablaze,  it's  so 
dry.  If  we  had  anything  to  cook  we'd  venture 
on  a  little  one ;  but  it's  warm,  and  I  guess  we  can 
stand  it.  I  wish  we  hadn't  eaten  all  the  lunch- 
eon. But  we  can  have  a  smoke  and  a  drop  of 
whiskey." 

"  Water  would  go  better,  wouldn't  it?  " 

"  That's  a  fact,  but  the  whiskey  will  be  warm- 
ing." 

They  slept  that  night  in  a  sheltered  hollow 
with  pine  needles  heaped  high  above  them  and 
awoke  to  a  sunless  sky  and  a  wind  roaring  among 
the  treetops.  Theodore  climbed  a  tree,  hoping 
to  discover  the  lake.  One  low  ridge  rose  beyond 

190 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

another,  any  one  of  which  might  conceal  the  lit- 
tle pond.  Everywhere  was  the  same  dark, 
monotony  of  hemlock,  scowling  and  unfriendly 
beneath  the  lowering  sky. 

They  said  little  as  they  took  up  the  way 
again.  Their  parched  lips  moved  with  difficulty, 
and  it  seemed  a  waste  of  strength  to  form  the 
words.  At  length  they  came  to  a  spring,  half- 
choked  with  debris.  The  water  was  brackish, 
but  sweeter  to  them  than  any  draught  they  had 
ever  tasted.  Theodore  had  shot  two  squirrels, 
and  now  cheered  by  the  water  he  roasted  them 
with  the  skill  of  the  practiced  camper,  while  Reid 
watched  the  fire  closely,  beating  out  creeping 
tongues  of  flame  lest  the  whole  forest  should  puff 
up  in  one  gigantic  bonfire. 

For  a  little  while  after  their  meal  the  two  men 
pressed  on  with  renewed  courage.  The  food 
and  drink  had  fairly  made  them  over.  Soon, 
however,  Reid  began  to  lag,  and  when  Theodore 
looked  back  at  him  showed  a  face  white  and 
contorted  as  if  with  pain. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?"  Theodore 
said,  shocked  at  the.  change  in  his  friend's  ap- 
pearance. 

Reid  tried  to  smile,  but  only  succeeded  in 
twisting  his  face  in  a  ghastly  fashion. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing.  I  probably  had  too  much 
191 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

dinner,"  he  gasped  grimly,  game  to  the  last. 
"  Keep  on.  I'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Sit  down  and  rest.  You'll  feel  better.  That 
wasn't  the  right  kind  of  thing  for  you  to  eat 
when  you  were  half-starved.  I  should  have 
given  you  malted  milk."  Theodore  tried  to  jest, 
but  his  heart  was  very  heavy.  He  felt  somehow, 
he  hardly  knew  why,  that  Reid  was  very  ill. 

The  latter  seated  himself,  without  protest,  on 
the  ground,  with  his  back  to  a  tree.  Harding 
sat  down  beside  him  and  eyed  him  furtively. 
Soon  the  dull,  lustreless  eyes  closed  and  Reid's 
chin  fell  upon  his  breast.  Harding  kept  his  mel- 
ancholy watch  unheeded.  Overhead  slatey 
clouds,  tinged  on  their  swelling  folds  with  a  pe- 
culiar yellowish  hue,  drifted  rapidly.  At  inter- 
vals a  crow's  harsh  note  floated  down  from  above. 
As  far  as  he  could  see  dark  stems  of  hemlock  and 
spruce  closed  in  on  either  side.  Even  the  floor 
of  the  forest  was  dark  with  some  bushy  ground- 
hemlock  which  somehow  added  to  the  sense  of 
a  stern  luxuriance  of  vegetation  hemming  them 
in. 

Harding  was  at  length  fairly  facing  the  con- 
viction that  they  were  hopelessly  lost.  He  knew 
that  unless  they  had  wandered  far  from  their 
course  they  should  have  reached  the  foot  of 
Beaver  Pond  long  before.  Once  past  this  land- 

192 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

mark  there  was  little  to  guide  them.  Moreover, 
they  could  not  travel  far  until  Reid  should  be 
better.  As  Harding  studied  the  flushed  face  and 
deeply  hollowed  cheeks  he  felt  that  this  could 
not  be  soon. 

For  lack  of  anything  better  to  do  he  stooped 
to  adjust  the  strap  of  his  legging.  Something 
fell  from  it  with  a  metallic  clink  upon  the  rock 
beneath  him.  Theodore  picked  it  up  and  gazed 
at  it  in  speechless  wonder.  It  was  the  compass 
needle!  Through  all  their  wanderings  the  bit 
of  metal  had  stuck  there.  Now  when  it  was  lit- 
tle better  than  useless  it  came  to  light.  He  fixed 
it  once  more  upon  its  pin  with  a  heart  full  of 
bitterness.  There  was  something  cruelly  sport- 
ive about  this  freak  of  fate,  which  gave  them 
back  their  guide  just  when  they  were  so  hope- 
lessly lost  that  it  could  tell  them  nothing.  They 
might  be  skirting  the  east  shore  of  Beaver  Pond, 
or  the  west ;  they  might  have  been  wandering  3!! 
day  in  circles.  If  they  could  have  found  the 
compass  needle  last  night,  before  they  had  so 
hopelessly  lost  their  sense  of  direction,  they 
would  have  been  safe.  Now,  however,  only  de- 
spair seemed  left  for  them. 

His  bitter  thoughts  were  broken  in  upon  by  a 
rustle  as  Reid,  still  sleeping,  toppled  over  to  one 
side  and  gently  sank  upon  the  ground.  The 

193 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

shock  of  the  fall  roused  the  sick  man  in  some 
measure  and  he  opened  his  eyes  slowly.  Dull 
and  uncomprehending  at  first,  they  brightened 
a  little,  as  Theodore  said  cheerfully : 

"  Well,  Frank,  old  man,  how  do  you  feel  ? 
Rested?  I've  got  some  good  news  for  you. 
I've  found  the  compass  needle.  It  had  fallen 
into  a  strap  of  my  legging  and  had  stuck  there 
all  this  time.  Perhaps  the  buckle  attracted  the 
iron,  or  the  other  way  about.  Now  we  can  go 
on.  That's  right.  I'll  help  you  up.  Now  put 
your  arm  over  my  shoulder.  That's  it.  Now 
we'll  get  along  finely." 

Reid  did  not  think  clearly  enough  to  have  any 
of  Theodore's  doubts  in  regard  to  the  efficacy  of 
the  compass  needle.  He  had  just  enough 
strength  left  to  obey  orders.  He  leaned  heavily 
on  his  friend's  shoulder  and  stumbled  along  pain- 
fully, with  compressed  lips  and  eyes  that  hardly 
seemed  to  see  the  dreary  woodland  ahead.  Theo- 
dore with  his  arm  about  his  companion,  and  the 
two  rifles  slung  over  his  shoulder,  pressed  on 
almost  blindly.  One  route  was  much  the  same 
as  another.  He  hardly  knew  why  he  was  trav- 
elling at  all.  A  single  thought,  however,  pos- 
sessed him.  If  they  could  but  reach  water  be- 
fore they  had  to  stop  their  chances  would  be 
doubled.  Not  only  could  they  satisfy  their 

194 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

thirst;  but  they  would  stand  a  better  chance  of 
shooting  game  which  would  seek  water  at  a 
great  distance  through  the  parched  forest. 

Theodore  knew,  moreover,  that  the  streams  of 
that  region  flowed  toward  the  south.  If  they 
could  but  find  running  water  they  would  have  a 
sure,  if  desultory  guide.  Beside  a  stream  they 
could  rest  until  they  gained  strength  to  follow  its 
windings  back  to  civilization.  So  Theodore 
pushed  on  over  the  uneven  surface  of  the  wood. 
Often  the  space  between  the  trees  was  only  wide 
enough  for  one,  and  he  guided  the  drooping  fig- 
ure through,  bruising  himself  recklessly  in  his 
haste.  Sometimes  the  sick  man  stumbled  and 
fell  to  his  knees,  and  Harding  had  to  drag  him 
to  his  feet.  Reid  was,  at  any  time,  a  heavier 
man  than  his  companion  and  now  bore  down 
with  a  cruel,  lifeless  weight.  The  rifles  dragged 
and  their  straps  cut  sharply.  They  were  all  the 
time  swinging  wild  and  catching  on  the  crowd- 
ing tree-stems.  The  perspiration  stood  on  Theo- 
dore's forehead  and  dripped  down  over  his  face 
in  spite  of  the  chill  of  the  day.  And  still  he 
pressed  on,  for  miles  it  seemed  to  him,  faint  with 
hunger,  spent  with  travel  and  sleeplessness,  with 
knees  that  trembled  and  feet  that  seemed  to  be- 
long to  someone  else,  and  to  stumble  on  inde- 
pendently of  any  volition  of  his  own ;  with  breath 

195 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

that  grew  shorter  and  heart  that  hammered 
louder.  But  still  his  ears  were  strained  eagerly, 
anxiously. 

To  his  impatience  the  wood  seemed  full  of 
voices, —  the  roar  of  the  smoke-laden  wind  in  the 
tree-tops,  the  creak  of  branches,  the  scream 
of  distant  jay  or  crow,  the  chatter  of  a  squirrel, 
the  crash  of  their  own  clumsy  footfalls;  but 
among  them  all  Theodore  listened  for  one  sound, 
the  trickle  of  running  water. 

At  last  there  seemed  to  come  to  his  ears  a 
sound  different  from  the  others.  A  score  of 
times  he  had  thought  he  had  heard  it  before,  and 
as  many  times  had  only  felt  his  heart  sink  with 
hopeless  disappointment;  but  this  was  something 
different.  It  persisted  even  after  the  two  men 
paused.  Reid  sank  to  his  knees  with  the  first 
opportunity,  but  Harding  could  not  stop  even 
for  his  friend  to  rest.  He  ran  on  by  himself 
breathlessly  until  the  sounds  became  unmistak- 
able. It  was  the  trickling  of  a  stream,  a  little 
accented  plash,  as  if  the  water  fell  from  a  height. 
Theodore  stood  for  a  second,  until  he  was  sure 
that  his  ears  had  not  deceived  him.  Then  he 
said  softly,  "  Thank  God !  " 

With  commands  and  entreaties  he  once  more 
roused  his  friend,  and  almost  carried  him  through 
the  dense  woods  that  crowded  the  bank  of  the 

196 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

stream  to  the  little  opening  which  edged  it. 
There  a  rare  maple  had  cast  its  scarlet  leaves  into 
a  hollow  at  its  foot,  and  in  this  sheltered  nook 
Theodore  heaped  a  bed  and  laid  his  friend.  Then 
he  doled  out  water  to  his  companion  in  meagre 
sips,  and  drank  sparingly  himself.  He  bathed 
the  sick  man's  fevered  hands  and  face  and  made 
him  as  comfortable  as  possible  —  all  the  time 
feeling  a  glow  of  hope  about  his  heart.  For  the 
ooze  of  the  stream  side  was  printed  thick  with 
the  tracks  of  deer. 


197 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Harding  tried  in  vain  to  sleep.  His  own 
weariness,  Reid's  starts  and  moans,  the  unabated 
roaring  of  the  wind,  all  conspired  against  him. 
Finally  he  sat  up  and  drew  forth  his  cigar  case, 
fingering  the  precious  contents  eagerly.  He 
reached  for  a  match,  then  paused  irresolute. 
This  was  their  sole  store,  for  the  full  box  had 
been  jerked  unnoted  from  the  pocket  of  his  hunt- 
ing coat  in  the  day's  wanderings.  Who  knew 
what  their  need  might  be?  Still  he  hesitated. 
He  was  cold  and  hungry  and  lonely ;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  never  met  such  temptation  be- 
fore. He  rolled  the  fragrant  cylinder  between 
his  fingers,  smelled  of  it,  held  it  against  his  lips. 
He  realized  with  a  rush  of  self-contempt  that  his 
eyes  were  wet.  He  closed  the  case  resolutely; 
he  must  husband  their  every  resource. 

He  had  at  length  fallen  into  a  light  doze,  when 
a  voice  woke  him.  Clear  and  distinct,  it  said : 

198 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Call  her  once  before  you  go, 

Call  once  yet, 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know : 
Margaret !     Margaret !  " 

Coming  out  of  the  rushing  blackness,  with  no 
association  of  familiarity  to  the  hearer's  ears,  the 
words  had  a  personal  appeal  which  they  would 
have  lacked  under  ordinary  circumstances. 

"  Call  her  once  before  you  go, 
Margaret !     Margaret !  " 

The  voice  repeated,  dying  away  monotonously. 
Then  the  tones  changed  as  the  voice  murmured 
softly,  liltingly: 

"  Ah,  they  bend  nearer  — 
Sweet  lips,  this  way." 

That  vivid,  irregular  face,  the  pink,  mocking 
lips  stood  for  a  moment  out  of  the  darkness ;  and 
Theodore  felt  a  throb  of  fierce  jealousy  as  the 
possible  meaning  of  the  words  flashed  over  him. 
But  he  crushed  down  the  feeling,  angry  at  him- 
self. It  was  no  time  for  such  thoughts.  The 
gloomy  prophecy  of  the  words  was  to  be  verified ; 
they  were  facing  death  together,  and  any  rival- 
ries were  paltry  and  of  the  past. 

The  past  seemed  strangely  sweet  as  he  sat  there 
in  the  loud-voiced  darkness,  with  the  melan- 
choly music  of  the  verse  ringing  in  his  ears. 
His  instinctive  belief  in  a  future  and  better  life 
did  not  neutralize  the  pleasures  of  the  present 
199 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

one.  He  kept  his  lonely  watch  with  a  dull  ache 
in  his  heart  for  the  least  of  the  homely  things 
which  had  seemed  trivial  before. 

At  length  the  brightening  of  the  sky  told  him 
that  day  was  at  hand.  Stiff  with  cold  he  loaded 
his  rifle  and  took  his  way  to  the  spot  which  he 
had  marked  the  night  before.  He  had  hardly 
placed  himself  cautiously  in  position  when  a  big 
buck  stood  before  him.  He  fired  and  brought  it 
down  in  its  tracks.  He  hastily  cut  out  a  little 
meat  and  hurried  with  it  to  the  camp,  only  to 
find  the  hollow  beneath  the  maple  deserted.  Reid 
had  risen  in  his  delirium  and  wandered  off  into 
the  forest. 

Flinging  down  the  meat,  Harding  ran  out 
into  the  wood  in  widening  circles,  calling  his 
friend's  name.  The  trees  alone  echoed  back  his 
anxious  cries.  How  could  Reid,  weak  as  he 
seemed,  have  wandered  so  far?  Why  did  not 
some  kindly  instinct  prompt  him  to  answer? 
This,  of  all  the  misfortunes  of  the  expedition, 
thoroughly  unnerved  Theodore.  Dreadful  visions 
of  the  sick  man,  dying  of  hunger  and  thirst  in 
the  midst  of  plenty,  rushed  through  his  mind; 
he  almost  accused  himself  as  a  murderer,  and 
found  himself  half  sobbing  as  he  gasped  the  lost 
man's  name. 

At  length  the  alien  sound  of  a  human  voice 
200 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

guided  him  to  the  spot  where  Reid  walked 
wearily  and  aimlessly. 

"  Speaking  of  hell,"  he  murmured,  "  Dante 
didn't  know  anything  about  hell.  It's  trees, 
dark-stemmed  hemlock  trees,  crowding  up 
around  you  till  you  can't  think  or  anything.  I 
know  because  I've  been  there.  And  if  the  com- 
pass needle  is  lost,  how  are  you  going  to  get  on? 
To  be  sure  the  points  of  the  compass  are  all  on 
the  stand,  but  sometimes  they  point  one  way  and 
sometimes  they  point  the  other,  and  how  can  you 
tell  any  more  which  way  to  go,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

When  Harding  tried  to  lead  his  friend  back  to 
the  camp  the  latter  grappled  with  him  fiercely. 
"  Let  me  alone !  If  it  hadn't  been  for  your  infer- 
nal meddling  the  points  of  the  compass  would 
have  pointed  all  one  way.  At  least  I  think  they 
would  have.  Who  are  you,  anyway?  I 
thought  you  were  Theodore  Harding." 

Reid  gradually  grew  quieter  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Harding's  soothing  words,  and  con- 
sented to  be  led  back  into  camp.  There  he  sank 
down  submissively  in  his  leafy  bed  and  soon  fell 
into  a  sleep  quieter  than  that  of  the  night.  But 
much  to  Theodore's  dismay,  the  sick  man  re- 
fused the  food  which  he  hurriedly  prepared. 

As  Harding  ate  his  own  meal  he  pondered. 
20 1 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Reid  must  have  food  to  help  him  fight  the  fever. 
The  trout  flies  twisted  in-  his  hat  band  suggested 
another  expedient,  but  he  dared  not  leave  Reid 
alone.  At  length  he  hardened  his  heart  and  fas- 
tened him  firmly  to  the  maple  by  the  straps  which 
had  slung  the  rifles,  unmindful  of  his  querulous 
imprecations. 

Two  days  passed,  leaden,  interminable,  day 
and  night  alike  resolving  themselves  into  the  per- 
formance of  the  necessary  duties  and  a  fascinated 
watching  of  Reid's  flushed  face.  The  sick  man 
murmured  by  the  hour  the  minor,  doubting  verse 
which  denied  or  questioned  all  the  things  which 
Theodore  believed.  It  seemed  to  the  tortured 
man  sometimes  that  the  mocking  words  might  be 
true!  'If  there  were  a  God,  where  was  he?' 
He  tried  to  pray  in  a  fragmentary  fashion,  but 
through  his  prayers  stole  the  innuendo  of  the 
skeptic  voice.  He  was  sadly  puzzled  also  what 
to  do  for  his  friend.  Even  the  limited  appliances 
at  his  command  offered  a  chance  for  a  blunder. 
Should  he  give  the  patient  a  little  of  the  precious 
whiskey?  Should  he  urge  the  distasteful  food 
upon  him?  He  struggled  on,  however,  choking 
back  the  thought  which  sometimes  came  to  him 
that  it  were  wisest  for  both  of  them  if  he  made 
a  swift  push  for  aid. 

The  wind  continued  to  blow  strongly,  bring- 
202 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ing  with  it  heavy  volumes  of  smoke.  Harding 
knew  that  it  might  have  come  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, that  it  might  be  no  harbinger  of  evil.  But 
at  length  a  leaf,  burned  to  a  gray  skeleton  of  ribs, 
fell  into  his  outstretched  hand.  Brands  and 
ashes  soon  came  floating  through  the  air,  strewed 
the  pool,  and  danced  in  the  eddies  of  the  little 
fall.  Theodore's  anxiety  was  confirmed.  He 
felt  sure  that  unless  the  wind  changed  they  would 
be  directly  in  the  path  of  a  forest  fire. 

At  half-past  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the 
third  day  at  the  brookside,  it  was  almost  dark. 
Big  brands  were  borne  glowing  through  the  air 
to  fall  hissing  in  the  stream.  It  was  sultry  with 
the  heat  of  midsummer  and  breath  was  almost 
impossible.  Harding  shivered,  in  spite  of  the 
warmth,  at  the  thought  of  being  overpowered  in 
the  rush  of  the  flames  before  he  could  carry  out 
the  scheme  which  he  had  in  reserve.  Action  of 
any  kind  was  better  than  waiting,  and  he  climbed 
to  the  top  of  a  giant  hemlock  to  reconnoitre.  A 
great  wind  roared  in  the  tree-tops  and  swayed 
his  uncertain  perch  dizzily.  Clinging  tightly, 
Theodore  looked  off  to  the  southward,  across 
miles  of  dark  forest.  Over  it  hung  a  heavy  sky 
of  a  peculiar  yellowish  hue.  Far  to  the  south, 
forming  in  ever-advancing  horizon-line,  rolled  a 
203 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

cloud  of  dingy  smoke  and  a  jagged,  scarlet  fort- 
alice  of  flame. 

One  glance  told  him  that  there  was  no  time  to 
lose.  He  scrambled  recklessly  downward,  tear- 
ing his  hands  and  his  already  tattered  clothing. 
As  he  reached  the  ground,  he  saw  little  shy  wood- 
creatures  come  rushing  into  the  clearing  in  their 
flight  from  the  fire.  He  seized  Reid,  light  now 
and  fever-wasted,  and  dragged  him  to  the  edge 
of  the  stream.  There  he  waited  while  the  roar 
of  the  flames  came  nearer  and  the  heat  grew 
more  intense. 

The  little  pool  was  four  or  five  feet  deep 
and  perhaps  ten  feet  across.  No  trees  grew  close 
to  the  bank.  Harding  did  not  doubt  that  the  im- 
petus of  the  fire  would  carry  it  across  the  stream ; 
but  he  hoped  that  by  crouching  low  and  covering 
their  heads  while  the  fiery  blast  passed  over,  they 
might  escape.  At  any  rate  it  was  their  only 
chance. 

The  heat  grew  unbearable.  Half  supporting, 
half  dragging  Reid,  Harding  waded  into  the  pool 
and  crouched  there,  holding  his  rebellious  but 
weak  friend  down  beside  him.  The  water  was 
deadly  chill  after  the  heat  of  the  air.  The  cold 
penetrated  to  the  bone.  The  teeth  of  the  two 
men  chattered  even  while  they  gasped  for  breath. 

204 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

As  the  heat  grew  fiercer  they  sank  lower  in  the 
water. 

Beside  them,  in  the  borders  of  the  stream, 
crouched  frightened  wild  things.  A  rabbit  work- 
ed its  quivering  ears  and  a  fox  edged  closer  as  if 
for  protection,  its  splendid  brush  floating  out  on 
the  water.  Harding  saw  all  these  things  without 
surprise.  It  seemed  but  natural  that  all  feuds 
should  be  buried  before  the  common  enemy.  His 
whole  mind  was  concentrated  on  their  safety. 
He  was  having  no  more  trouble  with  Reid.  He 
hung,  a  heavy  weight  on  his  companion's  arm, 
and  seemed  to  have  fainted.  Theodore  thought 
with  a  pang  that  the  shock  would  probably  kill 
the  sick  man. 

At  last  the  final  moment  came.  Theodore's 
smoke-blinded,  smarting  eyes  could  see  the  tree- 
stems  stand  out  black  against  the  solid  wall  of 
flame  which  advanced  upon  them.  The  shrivel- 
ling, scorching  wind  took  away  his  breath,  and 
the  heat  stung  his  cheek.  He  grasped  Reid  and 
together  the  two  men  sank  beneath  the  surface  of 
the  pool  while  the  flames  roared  over  them. 

Harding  rose  for  an  instant,  bearing  his 
friend  with  him,  for  a  breath  of  the  furnace-like 
air,  then  sank  again.  The  water  seemed  warm 
now,  and  he  had  ceased  to  shiver.  When  again 
he  came  to  the  surface  the  heat  was  endurable 
205 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

and  he  paused  to  glance  off  where  the  flames 
went  roaring  on  their  course.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments he  waded  to  a  water-soaked  log  that  ex- 
tended some  distance  into  the  pool  and  seated 
himself  there,  holding  Reid  in  his  arms.  He 
realized  that  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  the 
ground  would  be  cool  enough  to  be  bearable,  so 
he  prepared  himself  for  his  dreary  vigil. 

Dusk  had  grown  into  dark,  a  darkness  lighted 
weirdly  by  the  still  blazing  tops  of  the  big  hem- 
locks. The  fire  had  flashed  past  without  burn- 
ing deeply,  and  the  trunks  of  the  trees  stood 
scorched,  bare  of  foliage  and  smaller  branches. 
Now  and  then  one  would  stream  up  once  more 
in  brilliant  fire  works  to  the  stars,  faintly  shin- 
ing through  the  haze  of  smoke.  Harding  watch- 
ed the  uncanny  scene  dumbly,  with  gasping 
breath  and  smarting  eyes.  He  had  not  given 
up.  He  was  still  pluck  to  the  bone,  but  he  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  the  outlook  was  not 
hopeful.  Reid  leaned  against  his  shoulder  in 
an  exhaustion  which  seemed  to  Theodore  more 
ominous  than  the  former  delirium.  He  could 
hardly  be  sure  that  any  breath  parted  the  sick 
man's  lips.  He  felt  certain  at  times  that  his 
friend  had  died  there  in  his  arms.  Little  by  lit- 
tle all  thought  of  the  future,  all  solicitude  for 
his  companion,  was  driven  from  Harding's  mind 

206 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

by  his  own  discomfort  and  the  horror  of  his  posi- 
tion. The  numbness  of  his  arms,  the  intoler- 
able smarting  of  his  eyes  and  throat,  his  gasp- 
ing, choked  breathing,  alone  absorbed  his  at- 
tention. Three  times  he  propped  the  unconscious 
Reid  against  the  log  and  waded  ashore  to  see 
if  the  ground  had  become  bearable.  The  third 
time  he  went  back  for  his  friend,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment was  stretched  beside  him  on  the  hot  ground 
utterly  spent. 

As  he  turned  restlessly  over,  steaming  in  his 
damp  clothes,  Harding  felt  a  hand  on  his,  a 
hand  cool  and  moist.  A  voice  said  close  to  his 
ear, 

"What  is  it,  Teddy?  What's  the  matter?  I 
can't  seem  to  make  it  out.  I've  been  sick, 
haven't  I?" 

''  You've  been  a  little  off  your  feed  along 
back,"  responded  Theodore  hoarsely.  "  I've  been 
trying  a  reversed  Turkish  bath  on  you.  It  seems 
to  have  done  you  good." 

Theodore's  careless,  matter-of-fact  words  sat- 
isfied Reid  for  a  few  minutes.  He  studied  the 
problem  for  a  time  and  then  said  weakly. 

"  You're  jollying  me.  What  makes  the 
ground  so  hot?  How  did  we  get  here?" 

"  Your  head  isn't  hot  any  more,  and  that's 
the  important  thing  at  present,"  the  other  an- 
207 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

swered,  ignoring  the  question.  "  How  do  you 
feel,  anyway?" 

"  My  head  doesn't  ache  now,  but  I  feel  faint," 
Reid  answered  weakly. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  aren't  hungry?  "  Theodore 
asked  after  a  little  pause.  He '  sprang  up  and 
hurried  to  the  tree  where  he  had  placed  the  ven- 
ison. The  meat  was  charred  black  in  the  burned 
fork  of  the  tree;  but  as  Harding  eagerly  cut 
in  with  his  hunting  knife  he  found  that  it  was 
still  fresh  and  juicy  within.  He  cut  out  a  piece, 
and  over  a  fire  which  he  kindled  with  difficulty 
from  the  charred  brands,  he  cooked  the  meat  a 
little,  and  pressed  out  its  juice  for  his  friend. 
Too  weary  to  prepare  any  more  for  himself  he 
ate  the  tasteless  fibres  remaining  and  flung  him- 
self once  more  upon  the  ground. 

His  tired  limbs  had  never  touched  a  bed  that 
seemed  more  pleasant,  but  he  could  not  sleep. 
Reid,  too,  was  wide  awake,  and  as  he  seemed 
stronger  after  his  light  meal,  Theodore  grad- 
ually explained  the  situation.  He  spoke  simply, 
not  magnifying  his  own  part  in  the  matter;  but 
Reid  made  allowance  for  his  friend's  modesty 
and  realized  that  he  owed  his  life  to  that  un- 
faltering courage. 

"  The  worst  of  it  was,"  the  simple  narrative 
ended,  "  that  I  couldn't  do  anything,  and  wasn't 
208 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

sure  that  the  things  I  could  do  weren't  the  worst 
possible  ones.  I  thought  taking  you  into  the 
water  there  would  finish  you,  and  it  looks  as  if 
it  helped  you." 

The  late  November  dawn  disclosed  a  gloomy 
scene  to  the  swollen,  inflamed  eyes  of  the  two 
wanderers.  As  far  as  they  could  see  stretched 
the  forest,  bleak  and  bare.  Here  and  there 
some  old  tree-trunk  or  stump  smoked  briskly, 
telling  of  hidden  fires  within  ready  to  burst 
forth  at  any  time.  The  ground  and  the  trees 
everywhere  sent  up  languid  coils  of  smoke  that 
changed  from  faint  blue  to  pink  in  the  light  of 
the  rising  sun.  The  brook  was  covered  thick 
with  a  scum  of  ashes  and  charred  brands,  and 
the  white  belly  of  a  fish  shone  out  amid  the 
dark  wreckage.  All  the  little  friendliness  of  the 
place  was  gone.  The  kindly  maple  was  but  a 
black  skeleton,  with  a  mass  of  greyish  ashes  at 
its  foot  where  the  flame-colored  and  golden 
leaves  had  been.  But,  in  spite  of  the  dreariness, 
Theodore  was  not  without  hope.  The  imminent 
danger  was  past;  Reid  was  unmistakably  better; 
they  still  had  some  food  and  the  brook  would 
guide  them  from  the  wilderness  when  they  could 
move. 

Strange  as  it  seemed,  the  immersion  in  the 
icy  waters  of  the  brook  and  the  prolonged  steam 
209 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

bath  on  the  hot  ground  had  marked  the  turning 
point  of  Reid's  illness.  He  showed  no  more 
signs  of  delirium,  his  fever  was  gone  and  his 
appetite  had  returned.  He  ate  all  that  Theodore 
gave  him  and  complained  with  mock  bitterness  at 
its  meagre  amount.  But  Harding  had  other  rea- 
sons aside  from  his  friend's  health  to  urge  him 
to  restrict  the  meals.  So  much  of  the  flesh  had 
been  spoiled  by  the  fire  that  comparatively  lit- 
tle remained.  The  trout,  never  eager,  now  struck 
but  rarely  at  the  gaudy  flies.  Theodore,  him- 
self, lived  almost  entirely  on  the  dry  and  unnutri- 
tious  fibres  which  remained  from  Reid's  meat 
juice  and  broth,  but  still  the  supply  was  rapidly 
decreasing.  Moreover,  the  outlook  for  game  was 
most  discouraging  in  this  freshly  burned  terri- 
tory. 

Three  cigars  were  left  uninjured  in  the  cigar 
case  and  these  Theodore  brought  out  one  even- 
ing, and  handed  one  silently  to  Reid.  The  lat- 
ter took  it,  surprised,  and  rolled  it  tenderly  be- 
tween his  fingers  before  lighting  it.  A  sudden 
thought  struck  him. 

"  Have  you  saved  that  all  this  time,  old  man? 
Why  didn't  you  smoke  them  to  cheer  you  up?  It 
must  have  been  pretty  blue." 

'  All  this  time,'  "  quoted  Theodore  laughing. 
"  It  hasn't  been  years.     But  I  did  get  mighty 
210 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

blue  sometimes.  And  the  worst  of  it  all  was 
you  kept  saying  such  things.  You  came  near 
breaking  me  all  up,  time  and  again." 

"Why,  what  did  I  say?"  Reid  asked  quickly 
in  natural  apprehension. 

"  Oh,  poetry,  most  of  it.  Some  of  it  wasn't 
so  bad,  but  a  good  deal  of  it  was  the  most  dole- 
ful stuff.  There  was  a  lot  about  a  fellow  named 
'Thyrsis,'  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  a  tree. 
And  you  kept  saying  over  a  lot  of  stuff  about 
the  sea  of  faith,  and  a  melancholy  roar.  I  don't 
know  why,  but  it  took  the  starch  all  out  of  me. 
I  guess  'twas  your  tone  more  than  anything 
else." 

"  Matthew  Arnold  ?  "  and  Reid  laughed  weak- 
ly. "  No,  I  don't  suppose  he  would  be  a  great 
prop  in  an  emergency.  There's  nobody  like  him, 
though." 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  said  Theodore  unblush- 
ingly.  There  was  a  long  pause  as  the  two  men 
smoked  on  in  silence. 

"  It  seems  almost  cozy  here,  now,"  said  Reid 
at  length.  "  I'm  getting  quite  attached  to  the 
place;  I  shall  hate  to  leave,"  and  he  laughed 
ironically. 

"  Speaking  of  leaving,"  Theodore  said,  "  we've 
got  to  be  thinking  of  it.  We've  got  meat  enough 
to  last  two  days  with  economy,  and  one  fish,  and 
211 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

about  three-quarters  of  a  gill  of  whiskey.     Do 
you  feel  as  if  you  could  start  tomorrow?  " 

"  I  could  start,  but  I  don't  know  how  far  I 
could  get.  Teddy,  old  man,  you'd  better  go  on 
by  yourself.  Then  you  can  press  ahead  as  fast 
as  possible,  without  having  to  drag  me,  and 
send  somebody  back  after  me.  See?  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  do  it.  We're  going  to  stick 
together.  It's  safer,  and  it's  far  more  cheerful. 
The  only  thing  that  bothers  me  is  the  chance  that 
trying  to  move  is  going  to  hurt  you.  But  I'm 
afraid  there  is  no  other  way." 

"  How  do  you  plan  to  strike  ?  " 

"  I  think  our  best  chance  is  to  follow  the 
stream.  We're  sure  of  good  water,  and  that 
counts  for  a  good  deal,  dry  as  the  woods  are. 
It  gives  us  our  best  chance  for  game,  too.  And 
didn't  you  notice  on  French's  map  that  all  the 
streams  run  south  ?  " 

"If  you  would  only  start  without  me,  Teddy," 
Reid  protested. 

"  I  shan't,  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it." 

Reid  reached  over  and  laid  his  hand  on  Theo- 
dore's knee. 

"  Do  you  know  you're  a  brick,  Teddy  ?  "  he 
said  fervently.  "  Most  fellows,  would  have 
struck  off  for  help  instead  of  sticking  by." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Theodore  abashed. 
212 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  It  isn't  nonsense;  you  saved  my  life,  and  I'm 
going  to  have  a  chance  to  say  so.  It's  a  matter 
of  some  consequence  to  me  if  it  isn't  to  the  world 
at  large." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Harding  bluntly. 
"  You  had  the  hardest  part  of  it,  anyway.  I 
didn't  do  anything.  There  wasn't  anything  that 
I  could  do." 

"  I  know  all  about  that.  I've  been  tended  like 
a  baby,  haven't  known  anything  of  the  care  and 
anxiety.  I  have  had  the  best,  —  the  most  there 
was  —  to  eat.  I  know  something  about  it.  I 
tell  you,  Teddy,  I  haven't  deserved  to  be  treated 
so." 

Harding  writhed  uncomfortably  under  Reid's 
thanks  and  his  allusion  to  the  differences  that 
had  overshadowed  their  friendship  of  late.  It 
seemed  to  the  simpler,  less  analytic  mind  that 
any  shadow  of  misunderstanding  had  been  swept 
away  as  effectually  as  the  fire  had  licked  up  the 
dry  maple  leaves.  He  would  rather  the  matter 
should  vanish  forever  in  the  rush  of  the  flames. 
But  Reid  was  launched  now  on  his  subject  and 
was  not  to  be  stopped.  The  dusk  of  the  night, 
the  faint  plash  of  the  stream,  and  the  aroma  of 
the  cigars  all  unsealed  the  wall  of  reserve  between 
the  two. 

"  It  made  me  feel  mean  to  lie  there  and  have 
213 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

you  do  all  those  things  for  me,  while  I  had  been 
standing  in  your  way  for  a  year  back.  She  ought 
to  have  seen  that  you  were  a  better  fellow  than 
I,  and  I  suppose  she  did.  Only  there  seemed  to 
be  a  sort  of  fascination  between  us.  She  wouldn't 
marry  me,  Teddy,  and  I  couldn't  her,  if  I  wanted 
to.  This  is  all  I've  wanted  to  say  about  it.  I've 
seemed  like  a  sneak  and  I've  been  one,  more  or 
less.  But  I  guess  I  haven't  been  as  big  a  one  as 
I've  seemed.  At  any  rate  I  made  up  my  mind 
sometime  ago  that  I  wouldn't  stand  in  your 
light  if  I  could  help  it.  You're  one  of  the  few 
fellows  in  this  world  who  deserve  to  get  what 
they  want." 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  Frank !  "  Harding  groaned, 
pained  alike  at  his  companion's  praise  and  at 
the  necessity  of  canvassing  the  subject  at  all. 
"  Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more.  It's  her 
place  to  choose  —  and  the  one  that  gets  left  has 
got  to  stand  it  the  best  he  can,  that's  all.  It's 
a  pity  if  we  can't  be  friends  in  spite  of  it." 

But  Reid  had  begun  to  arraign  himself  and 
took  a  gloomy  pleasure  in  making  out  a  strong 
case. 

"  If  it  had  been  like  that,  —  yes.     But  I  knew 

all  the  time  that  I  couldn't  marry  her.     It  would 

take  an  independent  fortune  to  do  that.     I  was 

only  experimenting  and  so  was  she,  and  I  ought 

214 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

to  be  kicked  for  it.    I  did  try  not  to,  but  she  fasci- 
nated me." 

"  I  won't  listen  to  another  word,  Frank.  We're 
good  friends  now  whatever  happens,"  and  Hard- 
ing flung  his  arm  over  the  other's  shoulder. 

Just  as  dusk  was  falling,  two  days  later,  a 
party  of  searchers  from  French's  stumbled  upon 
the  two  men  they  were  hunting  for.  Dishevel- 
ed, red-eyed,  torn,  grimed  deep  from  the  burnt 
wood,  and  so  weak  that  they  could  hardly  stand, 
they  were  stumbling  along  half-consciously.  Still 
the  stronger  of  the  two  supported  the  weaker 
and  carried  the  two  rifles,  even  then  shining  with 
care,  slung  over  his  shoulder.  Amid  congratu- 
lations, rejoicings  and  explanations  the  two  men 
were  borne  back  to  the  warmth  and  rest  and 
plenty  of  the  hostelry. 


215 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  treasurer  of  the  American  had  come  on 
from  New  York  to  talk  with  Mr.  Harding',  and 
was  seated  with  his  host  by  the  big  open  window 
of  the  library.  The  air  floated  in  warm  and  just 
tinctured  with  smoke  as  of  forest  fires.  The  No- 
vember night  was  very  quiet  save  for  the  crick- 
et's tireless  chirp  and  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in 
the  pines.  Burkhardt's  thin,  dry  face  was  fur- 
rowed with  thoughtful  wrinkles;  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed as  he  spoke, 

"  We've  got  to  formulate  some  plan  to  lay 
before  the  directors  next  Monday."  The  an- 
nual meeting  of  the  American  was  at  hand. 

"  Are  you  sure  we  can't  weather  it  all  right 
on  the  present  basis?  "  Mr.  Harding  asked,  with- 
out much  hope  of  an  affirmative  answer. 

"  I  don't  see  how.  I've  done  all  I  can,  even 
to  counting  pennies.  But  what  does  five  hundred 
or  even  five  thousand  dollars  amount  to  with  a 
216 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

concern  like  this,"  Burkhardt  answered  a  trifle 
impatiently. 

"  One  thing  is  sure,"  Mr.  Harding  said  with 
decision.  "  We  must  not  pass  our  dividend  if  it 
can  be  avoided.  We  can't  have  public  confidence 
disturbed  and  a  slump  in  American  shares."  He 
had  thought  out  the  problem  through  wakeful 
hours  and  knew  the  shoals  and  dangers  along 
the  course  too  well. 

"  Oh,  we  can  declare  the  dividend,  and  then 
—  there  are  certain  retrenchments  which  we  can 
make.  We  can  scale  down  wages  and  cut  the 
price  we  pay  for  raw  material." 

"  Any  rise  in  selling  prices  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, now  ?  "  Mr.  Harding  commented  gravely. 

'  Yes ;  if  the  opposition  goes  to  underselling 
us  it  will  get  as  much  of  our  market  as  it  can 
supply  —  and  by  the  way,  Harding,  'how  much 
do  you  think  there  is  in  the  opposition  ?  " 

"  Not  nearly  as  much  as  the  newspapers  make 
out,"  Mr.  Harding  answered  eagerly.  "  There's 
no  organization;  only  some  little  correspondence 
among  the  independent  firms  and  agreement  as 
to  certain  details." 

"  Somebody  said  that  the  Harding  mentioned 
in  connection  with  it  so  often  was  your  son." 
Burkhardt's  tone  was  casual  but  his  glance  was 
217 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

keen.     He   felt   that  many  important  questions 
hinged  upon  this  point. 

"  Theodore  Harding  is  my  son,  but  he  is  in 
no  sense  the  head  of  the  opposition,"  Mr.  Hard- 
ing answered  quietly.  "  I  doubt  if  it  has  a  head. 
The  sensational  newspapers  have  seized  on  the 
matter  and  made  a  great  deal  more  of  it  than 
the  case  warrants." 

"  But  your  son  is  really  running  a  mill  outside 
the  combine  ?  "  the  treasurer  asked  quickly. 

r<  Yes."  Mr.  Harding's  tone  was  coldly  non- 
committal. 

Burkhardt  puckered  his  thin,  dry  lips  and 
looked  at  his  companion.  Mr.  Harding's  whole 
face  showed  the  pain  and  humiliation  beneath 
the  would-be  indifference.  His  companion  only 
said  quietly, 

"  Of  course    that  complicates  matters." 

"  It  should  not."  Mr.  Harding  spoke  more 
freely  before  this  man's  reticence.  "  I  am  not  in 
a  position  where  I  can  in  conscience  let  family 
ties  stand  in  my  way.  It  is  our  duty  to  do  the 
best  we  can  for  the  interests  intrusted  to  us.  I 
warned  my  son  when  he  entered  into  this  busi- 
ness what  he  must  expect  if  he  stood  in  the  path 
of  progress.  If  he  suffers  I  shall  suffer,  too,  but 
I  shall  know  how  to  make  it  up  to  him  in  the  fu- 
ture." 

218 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Spoken  like  a  Spartan,"  said  Burkhardt  with 
a  relieved  sigh.  He  felt  instinctively  that  praise 
was  sweet  to  Mr.  Harding  and  was  ready  with 
his  offering.  "  It's  a  great  relief  to  me  that  you 
see  things  in  this  light.  It  is  a  case  of  the 
greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number.  If  the 
boy  is  headstrong,  a  lesson  will  do  him  good.  At 
any  rate  we  cannot  treat  lightly  the  responsibil- 
ity which  we  have  undertaken." 

It  was  gratifying  to  Mr.  Harding's  self-love 
to  have  his  resolution  justified  on  lofty  grounds. 
He  turned  back  to  the  discussion  of  business  with 
new  courage. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  a  cut  in  wages  is  inevitable 
but  I  see  no  alternative,"  he  said  more  cheer- 
fully. It  eased  his  mind  a  little  that  the  sugges- 
tion had  come  from  his  colleague,  though  he  him- 
self had  long  feared  its  imminence.  He  had  a 
genuine  regret  that  this  experiment  should  bear 
hard  at  its  outset  on  those  least  fitted  for  such 
a  burden.  He  knew  in  a  theoretical,  bookish  way 
that  the  life  of  the  workingman  was  hard.  He 
disliked  to  impose  additional  burdens,  and  he 
disliked  to  stand  before  the  public  as  an  oppress- 
or of  the  poor.  He  recognized  both  motives; 
luckily  he  did  not  balance  one  against  the  other 
to  test  their  respective  weight. 
219 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  How  big  a  cut  will  it  have  to  be  ?  "  he  asked 
reluctantly. 

"  A  big  one.  I've  been  figuring  on  twenty  per 
cent."  Burkhardt's  tone  was  business-like,  with 
no  trace  of  sentiment. 

"  Wages  are  uniformly  high  at  present,"  said 
Mr.  Harding,  as  if  trying  to  brace  himself  for 
the  measure.  "  Here  in  Underbill,  you  know, 
they  beat  us  on  the  cut  we  tried  for  some  eight- 
een months  ago." 

"  What  bothers  me  is  the  chance  that  they'll 
strike,"  Burkhardt  continued. 

"  They  won't  strike,"  Mr.  Harding  respond- 
ed confidently.  "  We  are  too  strong,  or  they 
think  we  are,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing." 

"  It's  a  time  for  desperate  measures,  anyway. 
We  can't  halt  at  a  chance." 

"  Of  course  it  will  only  be  a  temporary  scale 
down,"  Mr.  Harding  went  on,  reassuring  him- 
self. "  The  combine  cannot  fail  to  put  up  wages 
in  the  end." 

"  That  has  been  the  unfailing  tendency,  of 
course.  The  workmen  see  enough  to  know  that 
for  themselves,  or  ought  to."  Burkhardt  was 
soothing  his  superior  as  he  might  a '  nervous 
horse. 

"  There's  no  help  for  it',  I  suppose ! "  and  Mr. 
220 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Harding  sighed  deeply.  "  But  no  one  can  know 
how  unwilling  I  am  to  have  it  done." 

"  I  can  guess,  Mr.  Harding,"  Burkhardt's  del- 
icate sympathy  answered.  "  Of  course  you  stand 
in  a  relation  almost  patriarchal  to  your  work- 
men. Any  suffering  —  or  apprehension,  I  hope 
it  will  really  amount  to  nothing  more  —  of  course 
touches  you  closely  and  personally." 

"  I  could  never  consent  to  it  if  I  did  not  know 
that  it  was  the  best  thing  for  them  in  the  end. 
The  collapse  of  the  combine  would  bring  fright- 
ful suffering.  One  has  to  judge  of  these  things 
sometimes  —  even  at  the  risk  of  misapprehen- 
sion." 

'  The  children  of  Israel  murmured  against 
Moses,  you  know,"  Burkhardt  added  quietly.  "  I 
can  understand  how  hard  it  must  be,  though  of 
course  only  partially.  One  who  has  had  to  do 
with  money  all  one's  life  cannot  really  know  what 
it  means  to  have  men  depending  on  him,  loving 
him.  Wall  Street  isn't  much  of  a  place  for  the 
affections.  Still  I  can  understand." 

Burkhardt's  tact  had  struck  the  right  chord. 
Mr.  Harding  liked  to  think  of  himself  as  a 
prophet-pioneer.  Rankling  words  of  Evans' 
along  the  same  lines  did  not  now  come  up  to 
irritate  him.  He  felt  himself  greatly  soothed. 
He  could  not  suppress  a  slight  smile  of  gratifi- 
221 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

cation  at  the  allusion  as  he  modestly  changed 
the  subject. 

"  And  what  else  do  you  suggest  in  the  line 
of  economy?  "  he  asked. 

"  Everything  we  can  manage.  Every  little 
does  help,  of  course,  though  I  said  just  now  it 
didn't.  The  money  leaks  away  terribly.  There's 
Badger's  last  bill,  for  instance." 

He  pulled  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket. 

"  There's  a  chance  for  economy  here,"  said 
Mr.  Harding,  scrutinizing  the  paper.  "  This  is 
outrageous." 

"  It  is  pretty  bad,  but  he  has  stood  by  us  in 
some  tight  places  —  and  we  are  paying  for  his 
reputation  and  all  that." 

"  Some  less  expensive  lawyer,  with  help  in  a 
tight  place,  might  serve  our  purpose  as  well," 
Mr.  Harding  said  tentatively.  This  point  also 
he  had  considered. 

"  Can  you  suggest  anybody  ?  Someone  who 
has  sense  enough  to  know  when  he  is  in  a  tight 
place?" 

Mr.   Harding  hesitated. 

"  There  is  a  young  lawyer  here  in  Underhill 
whom  I  have  had  my  eye  on  for  some  time.  He 
is  my  son-in-law,  in  fact.  I  have  hesitated  to 
suggest  his  name  on  that  account.  I  don't  wish 
to  seem  to  be  making  the  most  of  the  advantages 
222 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

which  my  position  gives  me  in  that  way.  But 
Oakley  is  so  eminently  sane  in  his  views,  and 
so  entirely  open  to  reason.  He  will  be  ready 
to  do  what  he  is  told  to  without  trying  to  mold 
things  to  his  own  views.  He  has  given  this 
branch  of  the  law  special  attention,  and  is  ex- 
ceptionally clever.  He  is  elected  to  the  state 
legislature,  however." 

"  That  needn't  hinder,  need  it  ?  " 

Just  then  the  light  footfall  of  a  horse,  trotting 
rapidly,  came  scurrying  around  the  corner  of 
the  house  toward  the  stable.  A  few  minutes 
later  a  maid  announced  Mr.  Burnham. 

"  He  is  my  confidential  agent  in  a  great  many 
matters  where  I  don't  wish  to  appear  personally. 
He  is  not  a  man  whom  I  should  choose  as  a 
friend,  but  he  is  most  useful.  He  may  be  able 
to  help  us  out  somewhat  as  to  ways  and  means, 
though  of  course  he  is  not  altogether  in  my  con- 
fidence." Mr.  Harding  wished  to  classify  Burn- 
ham  before  his  guest  should  meet  him. 

"  I've  been  telling  Mr.  Burkhardt  something 
about  Oakley,"  said  Albion  Harding  after  the 
necessary  presentations  were  over.  "  Perhaps 
you  can  confirm  what  I  have  said  as  to  his  abil- 
ity." 

"  He's  a  smart  fellow,  smart  as  a  trap.  I've 
often  wondered  why  you  didn't  let  him  in  for 
223 


some  of  the  good  things  the  American  is  giving 
away.  I  sometimes  think  it  would  be  cheaper  to 
keep  the  laws  than  to  pay  a  lawyer  so  much  to 
help  you  break  them  safely." 

Burkhardt  flashed  a  swift,  amused  glance  at 
Mr.  Harding  and  noted  the  latter's  black  brows 
and  twitching  lips.  The  president  of  the  com- 
bine answered  a  trifle  sharply, 

"  I  prefer  to  stick  more  closely  to  the  truth  and 
say  that  we  pay  a  lawyer  to  help  us  keep  the 
laws."  Mr.  Harding  made  the  assertion  so  de- 
cidedly that  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  be- 
lief in  the  truth  of  his  statement.  "  Unfortu- 
nately, however,  the  other  view  seems  to  be  the 
popular  one,"  he  continued.  "  The  populace 
does  not  seem  to  realize  that  plain  business  men 
cannot  be  expected  to  look  after  and  understand 
all  the  details  of  law  —  that  they  must  have  ex- 
pert opinion.  They  apply  their  entirely  un- 
grounded theory  as  to  the  general  rascality  of 
lawyers  and  imagine  that  we  seek  their  help  only 
in  underhanded  dealings." 

"  Badger  has  undoubtedly  saved  us  from  some 
bad  slips,"  Mr.  Burkhardt  said  pacifically. 

"  Yes,  he  has  undoubtedly  shown  the  American 
just  how  near  the  wind  it  can  sail,"  Burnham  re- 
torted with  a  short,  dry  laugh.  "  You  won't  get 
anybody  else  who  will  give  you  such  a  feeling 
224 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

of  safety.  I  suppose  you  are  talking  over  what 
to  do  with  this  opposition,"  he  went  on  with 
an  embarrassing  directness.  "  It's  going  to  work 
the  dickens  with  the  American,"  he  finished,  de- 
termined to  fix  the  responsibility.  Mr.  Harding 
said  nothing  and  Burkhardt  rejoined  easily. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  the  opposition  is  going  to 
count  for  much.  We  have  everything  in  our 
favor,  —  money,  a  competent  management,  and 
the  general  business  trend  of  the  day.  These 
things  are  hard  to  put  down." 

'  There's  one  thing  you  haven't  got,  and  that's 
public  opinion,"  said  Burnham  bluntly.  "  The 
people  are  all  with  the  opposition  and  against  the 
combine." 

"  Suppose  they  are !  How  much  does  that 
amount  to?"  Burkhardt  commented.  "If  they 
can  get  a  trust-made  article  cheaper  than  they 
can  get  an  opposition  one  they  will  buy  it  every 
time.  It's  all  right  for  them  to  take  out  their 
disapproval  in  talk.  It  doesn't  hurt  us  particu- 
larly, that  I  can  see.  As  long  as  they  buy  our 
product  they  can  talk  as  much  as  they  like,  as 
far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"  I  must  confess  that  I  don't  feel  that  way," 
Mr.  Harding  confessed.  "  The  criticisms  and 
accusations  are  undeniably  hard  for  me  to  bear. 
225 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

I  am  perhaps  foolishly  susceptible  to  public  cen- 
sure." 

"  I  believe  you  there,  Harding,"  said  Burn- 
ham  dryly.  Then  turning  to  Burkhardt,  as  if 
he  found  in  him  a  congenial  spirit,  he  continued, 
"  They're  making  a  good  deal  of  talk  over  that 
Rutledge  business,  aren't  they?"  Burnham's 
own  affair's  had  not  been  running  smoothly  of 
late  and  he  took  a  malicious  delight  in  irritating 
someone  else. 

"Rutledge?  Rutledge?"  Mr.  Harding  que- 
ried. His  memory  for  names  was  not  of  the 
best.  "  I  do  not  recall  it  for  the  time  being." 

"  Rutledge  ?  Oh,  his  was  a  common  enough 
case,"  Burkhardt  answered  hastily,  before  Burn- 
ham  could  reply.  "  He  declined  a  good  offer  for 
his  business  and  behaved  in  a  foolish  manner 
generally.  A  mortgage  was  foreclosed  on  him 
and  some  notes  fell  due.  He  gave  up  and  com- 
mitted suicide.  But  I  can't  see  the  justice  of 
blaming  the  American.  Hadn't  you  heard?" 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  I  hadn't  heard  of  the 
suicide,  however.  How  very  shocking !  "  Mr. 
Harding's  face  was  in  fact  a  little  white. 

"  It  was  shocking.  But  why  the  American 
should  be  held  responsible  is  more  than  I  can 
see.  It  was  the  man's  own  fault." 

At  length  Burnham  withdrew.  He  had  eased 
226 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

his  mind  of  a  certain  amount  of  irritation  and 
had  planted  another  thorn  in  the  garden  of  Mr. 
Harding' s  self-complacency.  He  could  not  re- 
gard his  evening  as  altogether  ill-spent.  When 
he  was  at  last  gone,  Burkhardt  turned  to  Mr. 
Harding, 

"  What  makes  you  put  up  with  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Harding  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He 
had  no  joy  in  the  analysis  of  his  motives  nowa- 
days ;  but  at  last  the  answer  came  in  his  quiet, 
reserved  tones, 

"  Because  I  need  him,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  be- 
cause I  cannot  get  on  without  him." 

"  Of  course  you  know  best.  But  I  should  hate 
to  have  a  satyr  like  that"  always  at  my  elbow, 
sneering  at  everything  I  did." 

"  He  is  irritating,  but  he  relieves  me  of  de- 
tails in  an  admirable  way.  He  is  not  openly  con- 
nected with  the  American,  and  so  can  move  with 
less  circumspection.  But  he  has  everything  in- 
vested there,  so  it  is  for  his  interest  to  do  faith- 
ful work  and  not  to  talk." 

"  I  can  see  that  it  is  convenient  to  have  an 
agent  with  those  qualifications,  but  it  is  a  pity 
that  he  can't  be  a  gentleman  at  the  same  time." 

"  He  has  qualities  that  make  up  for  that," 
Mr.  Harding  went  on  apologetically.  "  He  is 
quick  at  catching  the  general  scheme  of  what  you 
227 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

want  done  and  at  devising  means.  Moreover, 
he  is  willing  to  do  a  certain  amount  on  his  own 
initiative  and  willing  to  bear  the  blame  if  it 
will  benefit  the  combine.  It  has  been  of  incal- 
culable value  on  several  occasions  for  me  to  be 
able  to  deny  any  knowledge  of  certain  matters. 
You  can't  expect  everything  in  one  man." 

After  he  had  shown  his  guest  to  His  room, 
Mr.  Harding  went  downstairs  once  more  and 
paced  up  and  down  the  veranda.  He  hated  the 
thought  of  the  cut  in  wages.  It  could  not  fail 
to  create  disaffection  in  the  ranks  of  the  combine, 
and  it  would  make  the  course  of  the  opposition 
shine  more  brightly  by  contrast.  Theodore's 
popularity  would  grow  apace  while  his  father 
fell  steadily  in  the  popular  esteem. 

He  knew  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  the 
American  to  justify  itself.  The  public  at  large 
would  not  readily  believe  that  the  big  combine, 
incorporated  but  a  year  before  with  such  eclat, 
was  already  in  financial  straits.  It  would  be 
equally  incredulous  if  informed  that  the  cut  in 
wages  and  the  price  of  raw  material  were  but 
temporary  measures.  Moreover,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  give  such  explanations,  calculated  as  they 
were  to  unsettle  the  market. 

A  trust  had  been  placed  in  his  hands;  should 
they  not  prove  worthy  of  it?  It  would  mean  his 
228 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

personal  ruin  if  the  American  should  fail,  but 
that  consideration  counted  for  little  with  him. 
It  would  mean  the  ruin  of  so  many  others.  It 
would  mean  that  the  plan  and  aim  of  his  life  had 
failed.  His  wife's  ample  fortune  would  remain, 
their  beautiful  home,  his  rose  garden,  his  mon- 
ograph on  Dante,  his  organ,  but  he  knew  that 
these  quiet  employments  would  fail  to  satisfy 
him  then.  The  humiliation  and  pain  of  failure 
were  already  his  for  a  bitter  moment. 


229 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Francis  Reid  came  back  from  the  woods  with 
his  mind  made  up  to  withdraw  gradually  from 
his  friendship  with  Margaret  Favor.  He  had 
lost  all  taste  for  the  sentimental  trifling  which, 
after  all,  had  stood  in  his  friend's  light.  That 
whole  experience  in  the  woods,  with  its  forced 
recognition  of  the  verities  of  life,  had  shaken 
his  dreamy,  faithless  melancholy.  Harding's 
simple,  matter-of-fact  courage,  his  ungrudging 
loyalty  to  one  who  had  been  in  a  degree  his  ri- 
val had  roused  the  other  to  see  himself  in  a  new 
light.  With  the  renewed  strength  that  came  to 
him  after  his  illness,  came  also  a  strengthened 
belief  in  his  old  ideals,  a  resolution  to  take  life 
more  honestly  and  simply,  to  try  to  lay  aside 
speculation  for  action. 

Some  talk  which  he  had  with  Faith  Ordway 
helped  confirm  him  in  this  decision.  They  were 
skating  on  the  river  in  the  early  twilight  of 
230 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

December.  The  west  glowed  red,  reflecting  it- 
self in  a  delicate  pink  on  the  glassy  surface  of 
the  frozen  stream.  The  soft  grey  of  elms  and 
maples  traced  itself  across  the  sunset,  holding 
entangled,  one  pale  horn  of  the  crescent  moon. 
Faith,  flushed  with  the  exercise,  was  really  hand- 
some, and  had  been  unusually  attractive  that  aft- 
ernoon in  her  thorny  freshness  of  speech.  She 
had  laughed  at  Reid's  choicest  sentiment  and 
railed  alike  at  his  alternating  gloom  and  opti- 
mism. She  was  nevertheless  continually  lapsing 
into  moments  of  wholesome  bitter-sweetness.  At 
length,  after  some  half-mocking  rejoinder  of 
hers,  Reid  said  plaintively, 

"  Do  you  know,  Faith,  you  haven't  given  me 
a  decent  word  for  a  desperately  long  time?" 

"  You  probably  haven't  deserved  it,  then.  I'm 
a  very  just  person." 

Reid  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"  I  never  saw  you  look  so  handsome,  Faith." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  handsome !  "  she  said  carelessly. 
"  Only  sometimes  a  little  good-looking.  I  wish 
I  did  always  look  as  well  as  I  do  sometimes  — 
like  Miss  Favor.  She  is  the  despair  of  my  life  — 
she  is  so  exquisitely  dainty.  No  wonder  Mr. 
Harding  is  in  love  with  her." 

"Poor  old  Teddy, —  I'm  afraid  he  hasn't 
231 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

much   show.     They  have   so   little   in  common. 
That  isn't  a  good  outlook  for  a  happy  marriage." 

"  No,  I  suppose  it  isn't,"  said  Faith,  with  a 
touch  of  reticence  in  her  voice.  This  discussion 
of  general  principles  did  not  seem  to  interest  her, 
and  she  spoke  of  the  particular  once  more. 

"  I  have  always  wondered  why  she  didn't  care 
for  him.  When  anyone  is  so  nice  and  faithful 
he  ought  to  be  rewarded,"  she  went  on  a  little 
wistfully. 

"  Teddy  is  all  of  that,  but  he  isn't  deep.  I 
don't  know  that  it  is  for  his  happiness  any  more 
than  for  hers.  And  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to 
see  him  '  rewarded,'  as  you  say,"  Reid  spoke  with 
much  of  his  old  flippancy. 

"  For  personal  reasons  ?  "  she  asked,  looking 
at  him  keenly. 

"  Perhaps,"  his  tone  was  light  but  expressed 
some  hidden  puzzle. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  don't  you  know  ? "  she 
retorted  sharply.  "  I  would  be  ashamed  to  own 
it." 

"  There  you  go  jumping  on  me  again,  Faith. 
No,  I  don't  know.  It's  only  in  novels  that  a 
man  can  always  tell  just  whom  he  loves  most 
and  when  he  began  to  do  it.  You're  too  exact- 
ing. I  never  was  in  love.  Tell  me  just  how 
anyone  ought  to  feel." 

232 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  she  parried. 

"  You  spoke  with  such  certainty." 

"  Did  I  ?  Well,  I  like  to  see  a  man  know  his 
own  mind.  Mr.  Harding  doesn't  seem  to  have 
any  doubt  about  whom  he  loves."  Reid  thought 
the  lightness  sounded  a  little  forced. 

"  Oh,  well,  Teddy  and  I  are  quite  different. 
Things  are  always  coming  up  to  puzzle  me  and 
set  me  back.  You're  not  fair.  You  get  on  some 
new  gown  or  other  that  turns  my  head  and  takes 
my  breath  away  and  then  begin  to  ask  leading 
questions." 

"  You  made  me  ask  it,"  she  flashed  back  at 
him. 

"  Did  I  ?  Do  you  know  you  are  jolly  good 
fun  when  you  are  angry,  Faith  ?  I  believe  I  think 
you  are  more  interesting  than  Miss  Favor,  after 
all." 

Reid  was  quizzing  the  girl,  flirting  with  her 
mildly.  He  had  a  sense  of  having  gone  too  far 
in  his  last  remark,  but  it  was  with  a  decided 
shock  that  he  heard  her  next  words. 

"  Do  you  know,  sometimes  I  don't  like  you  at 
all?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Faith,"  he  stammered. 
"  I  thought  we  were  old  friends  and  good  ones." 

"  I  don't  know  quite  what  I  do  mean.  Only 
233 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

you've  disappointed  me  so."  There  was  a  quiver 
of  genuine  feeling  in  her  voice. 

She  paused  a  moment  as  if  waiting  for  an 
answer,  and  Reid  said, 

"  Oh  go  on,  let  me  hear  it  all." 

"  I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  more.  You 
said  Theodore  Harding  wasn't  deep,  and  you 
never  said  a  word  about  how  simple  and  kind 
and  good  in  every  way  he  is.  No,  Mr.  Albion 
Harding  is  the  kind  of  person  you  prefer.  He 
has  brains  enough,  I  admit,  but  he  hasn't  a  single 
thought  for  anybody  but  himself."  Faith's  blue 
eyes  were  flashing  with  a  wholesome  intolerance. 

"  All  that  you  say  about  me  is  probably  true, 
Faith,"  Reid  said  stiffly.  "But  at  least 
do  me  justice.  Be  fair.  You  said  that 
Teddy  was  faithful  and  nice,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind,  and  I  said  he  was  all  that, 
but  he  wasn't  deep.  Faith,  you're  way  off,  if 
you  think  I  don't  appreciate  Teddy.  I'm  under 
such  obligations  to  him  as  I'm  not  likely  to  be 
to  anyone  else  in  the  course  of  my  life." 

Something  in  the  solemnity  of  his  tone  sur- 
prised her. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  Hasn't  he  told  you  about  it  ?  But  of  course 
he  wouldn't.  He  didn't  want  me  to  tell  anyone, 
234 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

so  you  mustn't.  He  saved  my  life  up  in  the  woods. 
We  got  lost,  you  see,  and  I  was  sick  and  out 
of  my  head,  and  he  stood  by  me,  like  the  little 
brick  he  is." 

Then  he  told  the  whole  story,  as  they  glided  on 
together  in  the  twilight,  his  voice  breaking  once 
or  twice,  and  ended,  "  Now  don't  accuse  me 
again  of  not  valuing  Teddy.  He's  the  best  fel- 
low, way  through,  that  I  know.  He  has  his 
faults,  I  suppose.  He's  peppery  when  he's  roused, 
and  he  gets  roused  more  than  occasionally,  but 
he's  true  blue.  He's  worth  so  much  more  than 
I  am  that  I've  no  right  to  set  myself  to  estimat- 
ing him  anyway." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  that  way  about  yourself, 
Frank,"  Faith  said  gently.  The  little  story  had 
made  her  like  both  its  hero  and  its  teller  better 
than  before. 

"And  so  I've  disappointed  you?"  Reid  con- 
tinued. "  It  hurts  me  to  think  so.  Your  good 
opinion  is  very  dear  —  very  essential  to  me." 

"  I  suppose  I  had  no  right  to  say  what  I  did," 
Faith  responded  with  late  compunction. 

"  You  had  every  right  that  years  of  friendship 
can  give  —  and  I  admit  your  charges.  I  know 
I'm  not  living  out  my  life  as  I  planned  it.  Theo- 
ries are  always  modified  by  conditions,  I  know; 
235 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

but  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  kept  up  to  my  ideals  as 
I  might  have  done." 

"  That's  just  what  I  mean,"  Faith  interposed  a 
trifle  apologetically. 

"  It  isn't  a  pleasant  thing,"  Reid  went  on  re- 
flectively, "  to  have  your  tastes  and  ideals  change 
in  that  way  and  be  fully  conscious  of  it.  That 
comes  of  being  introspective.  If  one  isn't,  there 
isn't  half  the  pain  about  an  inevitable  thing  like 
that." 

"  Why  is  it  inevitable?  "  Faith  queried. 

"  How  can  it  be  anything  else  while  life  is  what 
it  is?  You  start  out,  not  knowing  the  world, 
expecting  to  be  always  true  to  yourself,  and  al- 
ways to  find  others  so.  You  think  you  can  stem 
the  current  and  stand  for  an  ideal  life  whether 
any  one  else  does  or  not.  Then  you  find  you 
can't.  You  find  the  world  isn't  what  you  thought 
it  was,  that  you  yourself  aren't  what  you  thought, 
and  everything  goes  to  pieces.  You  lose  your 
incentive  when  you  lose  your  belief  in  yourself. 
And  then  you  get  so  you  don't  care,  except  now 
and  then.  That's  a  little  tragedy,  and  the  higher 
your  hopes  and  aspirations  were,  the  more  of  a 
tragedy  it  is." 

"  The  tragedy  lies  in  saying  it  is  inevitable. 
One  of  the  things  that  I  remember  best  about 
236 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

the  old  days  is  that  you  were  always  believing  in 
people." 

"  But  I'm  not  altogether  to  blame,  Faith.  I've 
seen  a  good  deal  of  the  seamy  side  of  life  in  the 
last  five  or  six  years.  Newspaper  work  and  busi- 
ness don't  foster  a  belief  in  the  best  side  of  hu- 
man nature." 

"  Nor  seeing  too  much  of  Mr.  Harding,"  said 
Faith,  bluntly.  "  If  he  was  just  a  common 
money  maker  there  wouldn't  be  any  danger  for 
you ;  but  he's  everything,  —  scholar  and  musi- 
cian, and  philanthropist  and  religionist,  and  so 
many  things  that  you  can't  see  the  other  thing 
that  he  is." 

"  I  shan't  ask  you  what  that  other  thing  is. 
I  know  by  the  way  your  eyes  flash  that  it  isn't 
anything  complimentary.  You  know  you  and  I 
can  never  agree  about  Mr.  Harding." 

"  I  wish  you  would  leave  him  and  go  back  to 
journalism,"  said  the  girl  abruptly.  "  He  isn't 
good  for  you." 

Reid  looked  at  her  a  little  surprised,  so  well 
did  her  suggestion  harmonize  with  his  desires. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  doing  that  very  thing, 
Faith.  Not  for  the  reason  you  give  exactly,  but 
for  some  others.  You  see  I  hate  to  be  mixed 
up  in  this  business  against  Teddy  and  your  fa- 
ther. It  looks  as  if  I  were  taking  sides  against 
237 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

them.  Teddy  realizes  that  I'm  not,  but  your 
father  has  a  grudge  against  me.  You  can  see 
that  yourself." 

"  It  isn't  so  much  that  you  are  Mr.  Harding's 
secretary  as  that  you  believe  in  him  so  entirely," 
Faith  explained  eagerly. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  should  give  up  a  chance 
like  this  if  I  meant  to  make  business  my  life- 
work.  But  I  don't.  I  see  more  than  ever  that 
I  don't  want  to  settle  down  to  it.  I'm  getting 
restless  and  discontented."  He  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment. "  And  there's  another  thing,  Faith,  — 
this  is  in  confidence.  I  don't  like  the  way  the 
American  is  being  run  in  some  ways.  You  know 
more  or  less  about  it.  Everybody  does,  and  I 
will  say  this.  I  know  that  Mr.  Harding  isn't 
personally  responsible  for  most  of  the  things 
that  have  been  laid  to  him  lately.  The  only  trou- 
ble is  that  he  can't  hold  the  thing.  Circum- 
stances are  pushing  him  along  a  way  where  he 
doesn't  want  to  go.  But  I  don't  know  that  I 
want  to  go  too,  on  a  good  many  accounts." 

"  Have  you  any  opening  in  mind?  " 

"  I  heard  the  other  day  that  McLeod  is  going 
to  leave  the  '  Criterion.'  That  berth  would  just 
suit  me." 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Barker?  He  owns  it, 
doesn't  he?" 

238 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Yes,  I  know  him.  I've  done  more  or  less 
work  for  the  paper  ever  since  I  came  here.  I 
could  do  more  with  the  paper  than  McLeod  ever 
has,"  Reid  added,  with  the  assurance  that  always 
came  to  him  in  his  chosen  field.  "  In  journalism 
I  might  be  able  to  make  you  proud  of  me  some 
day  —  once  more."  He  laughed  dryly.  Faith's 
criticism  had  hurt  him  more  than  he  cared  to 
let  her  see. 

"  I'm  sure  you  could,  Frank !  That's  just  the 
trouble.  You  could  so  easily  be  all  you  ought 
to  be." 

"  And  meanwhile  can't  we  swear  a  new  friend- 
ship on  a  new  basis  without  any  illusions?  The 
old  days  are  very  pleasant  to  remember,  Faith. 
I  never  had  so  true  a  friend.  But  I  can  look 
ahead  and  see  even  better  ones,  founded  on  a 
truer  knowledge  and  understanding  of  each  other. 
Can't  you,  dear  ?  " 

Reid's  tones  were  tender  as  if  with  something 
more  than  friendship,  but  they  failed  to  move 
the  girl  to  any  feeling  of  response.  Reid's  true 
friend  she  would  always  be,  with  a  friendship 
such  as  few  women  are  capable  of;  but  as  she 
had  come  to  know  Theodore  better,  and  had 
learned  to  admire  his  simple  manliness,  her  child- 
ish, uncritical  admiration  for  Reid  had  waned. 
Theodore  brought  her  into  touch  with  vital  expe- 
239 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

riences  and  sought  her  cooperation  in  practical 
matters  in  a  way  which  delighted  her. 

Underhill  was  already  suffering  in  premonition 
from  the  cut  in  wages.  Twilight  lasted  longer 
and  lamplighting  came  late  in  the  thriftier 
homes;  meat  grew  less  frequent  in  the  dinner- 
pails  which  journeyed  each  morning  to  the  mill. 
Mothers  turned  and  patched  again  little  garments 
already  condemned  as  past  repair.  At  the  best 
of  times  there  had  been  no  great  surplus  for 
pleasure  or  for  hoarding  among  the  common 
operatives.  Now  with  a  big  decrease  in  wages 
privation  stared  them  in  the  face. 

This  state  of  things  prevailed  throughout  the 
country  wherever  the  American  held  sway.  The 
anti-trust  mills,  however,  were  running  full  time 
and  paying  full  wages.  Their  selling  price  stood 
unchanged ;  they  were  said  to  be  purchasing  their 
raw  material  at  the  old  rates,  and  they  turned 
out  weekly  an  even  product. 

Public  sympathy  now,  of  course,  went  with 
the  firms  outside  the  combine.  Theodore  in  par- 
ticular had  gained  in  favor  from  his  father's  un- 
popularity. Ordway  was  not  as  popular  among 
the  workingmen  of  Underhill  as  was  his  younger 
companion,  for  he  lacked  Harding's  simple 
friendliness  and  cordiality.  He  illustrated,  how- 
ever, the  fact  that  a  workman  could  rise  to  be  a 
240 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

mill-owner,  and  so  increased  the  self-respect  of 
the  onlookers ;  and  he  was  esteemed  and  honored 
in  the  city  which  had  seen  his  toiling  years.  His 
justice,  his  unfailing  kindness,  his  unassuming 
recognition  of  his  past,  all  won  him  a  quiet  re- 
spect and  affection,  no  less  sincere  than  it  was  de- 
void of  the  enthusiasm  which  Theodore  aroused. 
The  names  of  the  two  men,  so  unlike  in  train- 
ing and  character,  came  to  be  coupled  together 
continually,  and  they  had  in  fact  grown  very 
close  together.  The  young  man  had  come  to 
take  a  place  almost  like  that  of  a  son  with  the 
older  one.  With  Faith,  too,  he  grew  more 
friendly.  The  two  had  united  in  a  plan  for  open- 
ing a  cheap  but  wholesome  eating  house,  and 
Theodore  was  daily  surprised  and  delighted  with 
Faith's  executive  ability.  Mrs.  Ordway's  little 
kitchen  answered  at  first  for  the  baking  and  brew- 
ing and  boiling  which  went  on  industriously ;  but 
the  neat  room  on  River  Street  attracted  more  and 
more  people  to  its  hospitality.  Children  came, 
with  pennies  clutched  tightly  in  dirty  little  palms, 
and  held  out  their  pitchers  to  be  filled  with  soup. 
The  brown  loaves  of  graham  bread  and  shining 
sheets  of  buns  gradually  superseded  the  products 
of  the  bakery  near  by,  in  many  homes.  Soon  the 
little  restaurant  moved  into  another  building, 
where  a  basement  kitchen  with  big  range  and 
241 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

boilers  offered  better  facilities  for  the  increasing 
work.  Faith  gradually  added  the  cheaper  meats 
to  her  bill  of  fare,  and  her  baked  beans  and  brown 
bread  became  famous. 

One  stormy  night  in  early  March,  Theodore 
accepted  her  invitation  to  sup  with  her.  The 
room  was  cozy,  with  its  windows  full  of  gera- 
niums, and  its  little  fire.  Perhaps,  too,  the  gra- 
cious, womanly  hostess  lent  it  a  little  of  its  charm. 
They  had  talked  for  a  time  in  the  eager,  inter- 
ested way  into  which  they  always  fell,  when 
Faith  said, 

"Other  people  are  beginning  to  come.  What 
shall  I  do?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  have  them.  What 
sort  are  they  ?  I  don't  mind  giving  them  a  cheap, 
good  lunch.  Some  of  them  need  it  as  much  as 
the  mill  hands,  no  doubt;  but  you  see  it  will 
crowd  out  the  ones  we  started  it  for." 

"  Unless  we  enlarge  the  business.  The  room 
next  this  is  for  rent.  We  could  have  a  door  cut 
through  and  we  could  have  two  sets  of  lunches 
and  prices.  We  could  issue  tickets  to  the  mill 
people,  and  others  would  have  to  pay  higher 
rates.  Of  course  we  can't  furnish  lunches  at 
cost  to  all  Underbill."  Faith  planned  rapidly 
and  eagerly. 

"  The  point  is  you  are  working  altogether  too 
242 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

hard  already.  You  scarcely  have  a  chance  for 
anything  you  want  to  do." 

"  This  is  just  what  I  want  to  do.  I  was  al- 
ways wild  to  do  something.  You  know  I  wanted 
to  study  nursing.  No,  don't  worry  about  me. 
I'm  perfectly  happy." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that;  and  if  you  are  there's  no 
need,  on  that  score,  for  you  to  open  another  res- 
taurant. But  anyway,  you  are  not  going  to  tire 
yourself  all  out." 

"  All  right,"  said  Faith  meekly.  It  was  not 
altogether  unpleasant  to  have  the  man  opposite 
assume  the  right  to  dictate  her  actions.  "  Only," 
she  added,  trying  to  smile  lightly,  but  scarcely 
succeeding,  "  only,  when  the  American  swallows 
us  all  up  together  I  shall  open  my  restaurant  as 
a  money-making  concern." 

"  When  that  time  comes  we  will  talk  it  over. 
But  meanwhile  I  shan't  countenance  anything  of 
the  sort.  Do  you  know,  I  sometimes  think  you 
are  the  finest  girl  I  ever  knew,"  continued  Hard- 
ing in  blunt  compliment. 

;<  You  forget  Miss  Favor,"  she  said,  smiling 
mockingly. 

"  Oh  no,  I  don't,"  the  young  man  answered 
in  literal  fashion.  "  I've  remembered  her  more 
than  usual  lately."  Then,  seeing  her  puzzled 
look,  he  added, 

243 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Why,  haven't  you  heard  ?  " 

"No,  — what?" 

"  She  is  engaged  to  Senator  Blickenstrom. 
You  know  she  is  in  Washington  this  winter. 
That's  why  I  said  I  had  been  thinking  about  her 
more  than  usual.  It  set  me  to  thinking,  you 
know;  and  I've  about  decided  that  I  don't  care 
if  she  is.  Funny  thing,  isn't  it?"  and  Theodore 
laughed  a  little. 

"But  isn't  it  very  sudden?" 

"  Oh,  she  has  known  him  for  a  long  time,  but 
I  never  guessed  at  anything  of  that  kind  between 
them.  I  don't  think  there  was  until  this  winter." 

"  Mr.  Rubinovitch  was  in  here  yesterday," 
said  Faith  abruptly,  breaking  a  pause  that  had 
suddenly  fallen.  "  What  is  the  matter  with 
him?" 

"  Somebody  was  saying  the  other  day  that  he 
drinks ;  but  I  don't  really  think  it  is  so.  I  haven't 
seen  him  lately.  He  never  comes  around  any 
more.  A  year  ago  he  always  used  to  be  dropping 
in  at  the  mill." 

"  He  is  very  clever,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  a  genius ;  but  I'm  coming  to  think 
he  isn't  well-balanced.  He  has  all  sorts  of  wild 
notions  about  socialism  and  communism,  and 
things  of  that  sort.  He  has  explained  them  all 
to  me  time  and  again,  but  I  couldn't  seem  to 
244 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

make  much  sense  of  them.  At  any  rate  I  don't 
remember  them  now/' 

,  They  lingered  long  over  their  homely  supper, 
mindful  of  the  coming  and  going  about  them  as 
in  a  pleasant  dream.  From  the  midst  of  their 
conversation  Faith  was  directing  the  business  of 
the  room,  giving  commands  now  and  then  to  the 
woman  who  was  waiting  on  the  tables.  Inside 
the  fire  crackled  and  the  lamps  burned  cheer- 
fully; without  the  storm  howled,  rattling  the 
sleet  sharply  against  the  window-panes. 

At  length  Harding  rose  reluctantly  to  go. 

"  I'll  be  in  at  eight  —  it  was  eight  you  said; 
wasn't  it?  to  take  you  home.  It's  snowing  and 
blowing  like  everything,"  was  his  farewell. 


245 


CHAPTER  XX 

Albion  Harding  was  a  man  by  whom  anniver- 
saries were  scrupulously  remembered.  His 
thoughts  were  full  of  the  happy  past  rather  than 
the  anxious  future,  as  he  walked  up  the  hill  to 
dinner  one  January  night.  He  had  dismissed  the 
carriage  which  his  wife  had  sent  for  him  an  hour 
earlier,  and  had  lingered  long  over  puzzling  col- 
umns of  figures.  Now,  at  length,  the  yearly 
statement  of  the  missionary  society  of  his  relig- 
ious denomination  was  complete,  and  he  was  free 
to  think. 

He  was  glad  to  leave  the  present  for  the  past. 
That  date  marked  the  beginning  of  the  happiest 
days  of  his  life.  Thirty  years  ago  that  night  he 
had  been  married,  twenty-nine  years  ago  his  son 
had  been  born.  He  thought  of  his  return  from 
the  continent,  disappointed  and  disheartened, 
leaving,  as  he  thought,  all  the  best  of  life  behind 
him  to  take  up  dutifully  his  dying  father's  be- 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

quest.  He  had  found  there,  in  the  city  of  his 
birth,  an  occupation  more  absorbing  than  music, 
and  a  love  which  would  have  glorified  even 
drudgery. 

That  love  had  not  faded  as  the  years  went  on. 
Mr.  Harding  had  never  for  a  moment  been  dis- 
loyal to  his  wife.  She  had  been  even  dearer  to 
him  than  his  children.  The  sturdy,  black-eyed 
boy,  the  tiny  girl  trilling  about  the  house  with 
her  little  bird-like  voice,  had  been  her  gifts  to 
him.  The  love  which  they  exacted  had  only  in- 
creased that  which  he  had  given  her. 

As  the  children  had  grown  older  and  had  as- 
serted their  individuality,  the  harmony  between 
husband  and  wife  had  been  accentuated.  Mrs. 
Harding  was  not  lacking  in  strength  of  a  certain 
sort,  but  it  was  entirely  under  her  husband's 
guidance.  He  was,  himself,  in  a  union  different 
from  the  usual  one  of  husband  and  wife.  This 
very  passivity  of  hers  had  kept  up  the  illusion 
of  their  honeymoon.  All  a  woman's  duties  she 
had  fulfilled  to  perfection,  even  that  of  keeping 
her  youth  and  beauty.  She  had  given  her  hus- 
band a  clear,  steadfast  devotion  which  accepted 
his  word  as  law  and  did  no  independent  thinking. 
A  wife  with  a  strong  will  and  opinions  of  her 
own  would  have  jarred  on  Mr.  Harding's  mas- 
247 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

terful  spirit,  while  one  who  submitted  for  the 
sake  of  peace  would  have  irritated  him  no  less. 

As  he  climbed  the  veranda  steps  he  saw  his 
wife  seated  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire.  Some- 
thing in  the  listlessness  of  the  figure  told  him 
that  she  was  lonely.  He  realized  anew,  with  a 
remorseful  pang,  how  empty  the  great  house 
must  seem  to  her  with  both  children  gone.  His 
words  of  greeting  spoke  his  thought. 

"  Have  you  been  alone  all  day,  dear  ?  " 

"  No,  Theodore  was  up  to  lunch,  and  I  spent 
the  afternoon  with  Althea.  She  looked  a  little 
better,  I  thought,  but  she  tires  so  easily." 

"  The  roses  came  all  right,"  he  said,  glancing 
at  the  big  bunch  of  American  Beauties  that 
drooped  from  their  transparent  glass  over  the 
dusk  of  the  library  table. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  softly.  "  I  have  not 
missed  them  on  this  day  for  twenty-nine  years. 
What  lovely  ones !  We  have  had  none  so  fine  of 
our  own." 

"It  doesn't  seem  thirty  years,  does  it?"  he 
queried.  "  Thirty  years  is  a  long  time.  It 
would  almost  seem  that  we  must  be  getting  old ; 
but  you  do  not  look  five  years  older  than  the  girl 
I  married." 

"  Are  you  a  flatterer,  or  growing  very  blind  ?  " 
she  smiled.  "  My  hair  is  getting  quite  grey,  and 
248 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

you  don't  half  know  how  hard  I've  been  fighting 
wrinkles  for  the  last  fifteen  years." 

"  A  winning  fight,  then,"  he  answered  play- 
fully, as  he  stroked  her  smooth  cheek. 

"  I  have  done  my  best." 

"  In  everything,  and  your  best  has  been  per- 
fection. I  wish  I  could  say  as  much.  I'm 
afraid,  Evelyn,  I  have  not  been  what  I  should 
to  you,  especially  of  late.  I  have  been  so  wor- 
ried, so  absorbed  and  busy,  and  away  so  much  of 
the  time.  I  have  not  realized  as  I  should  have 
done,  how  lonely  it  must  have  been  for  you.  I 
was  thinking,  as  I  came  up  the  hill,  that  I  have 
estranged  you  from  the  things  you  care  for  most. 
Has  it  been  my  fault,  I  wonder,  that  my  son  and 
daughter  have  both  been  rebellious?  I  some- 
times think  that  I  may  have  erred  in  some  way 
with  Theodore  and  with  Althea." 

He  paused  to  hear  his  wife's  eager  protest,  but 
she  was  silent  and  he  went  on  more  slowly. 

"  But  I  have  made  many  advances  to  Theo- 
dore. I  bore  a  great  deal." 

He  paused  again  for  comment.  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing said,  with  obvious  effort,  her  delicate  face 
flushing : 

"  You  have  borne  a  great  deal,  Albion ;  but 
you  must  remember  that  Theodore  is  young  and 
impetuous." 

249 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Impetuous,  I  grant,  but  he  is  a  man  —  twen- 
ty-nine today."  Mr.  Harding's  tone  was  not 
over-tolerant. 

"  He  is  really  younger  than  that.  He  has  been 
trying,  I  admit.  But  he  has  not  the  self-control 
which  you  have  —  he  will  never  have  it.  Can't 
you  make  up  with  him,  Albion  ?  " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  He  has  deliberately  em- 
barked on  this  project.  If  I  could  not  dissuade 
him  at  the  start,  what  can  I  do  now?  I  cannot 
withdraw  from  my  position,  he  will  not  from  his. 
How  could  I,  Evelyn?  There  are  millions  of 
dollars  besides  my  own  embarked  in  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  cannot  withdraw,  Al- 
bion? I  don't  know  about  it,  of  course,"  she 
added  eagerly,  as  she  saw  the  frown  coming  be- 
tween his  brows.  "  I  realize  that  it  is  too  com- 
plicated for  me.  But  if  you  could  let  it  go! 
Someone  could  take  your  place,  and  we  could 
go  back  to  the  old  happy  times." 

"  But  we  cannot,  Evelyn,"  he  answered  de- 
cidedly. "  It  would  only  bore  you  to  listen  to 
the  reasons;  but  I  will  tell  you,  in  the  deepest 
confidence,  that  the  American  is  in  difficulties, 
pressing  financial  difficulties.  I  don't  wish  to 
arrogate  too  much  to  myself,  but  I  have  taken  the 
initiative  in  it  throughout.  It  would  be  a  dan- 
gerous experiment  to  change  leaders  just  now. 
250 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Besides,  we  could  not  go  back  to  the  old  happy 
days.  Althea  is  ours  no  longer,  and  Theodore 
—  can  you  expect  that  things  can  ever  be  quite 
the  same  between  us  ?  The  boy  has  defied  me  — 
has  shown  plainly  his  willingness  to  do  me  posi- 
tive harm." 

"  He  is  only  doing  what  he  thinks  is  right. 
He  has  told  me  how  he  feels.  Of  course  he 
should  realize  that  you  have  far  greater  experi- 
ence, and  .  are  better  fitted  to  decide.  But  he 
doesn't  mean  to  be  undutiful,  I  am  sure  of  that." 
Mrs.  Harding  performed  the  somewhat  difficult 
feat  of  remaining  loyal  to  both  parties  in  the 
struggle. 

"  Then  he  is  behaving  very  strangely.  I  am 
willing  to  meet  him  half-way  in  any  reconcilia- 
tion. If  he  will  give  up  his  plans  all  shall  be  as 
it  was  before.  But  the  advances  must  come  from 
him." 

"  Albion,  do  more  than  that,  for  my  sake ! 
Remember,  I  have  given  everything  to  you  and 
our  children.  I  haven't  been  like  some  women, 
only  half  a  wife,  half  a  mother.  I  didn't  have 
their  temptations,  I  never  cared  for  the  other 
things.  My  home  was  always  my  greatest  inter- 
est. But  sometimes  I  think  I  have  been  rewarded 
in  this  way,  Albion  —  that  we  are  more  one  than 
most  married  people.  I  think  I  have  never  asked 
251 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

you  for  anything  in  all  my  life  before,  which  you 
have  refused  me."  She  was  putting  her  whole 
heart  into  the  appeal. 

"  And  I  do  not  refuse  you  this,  Evelyn.  I  will 
do  what  I  can  in  honor.  But  there  is  a  limit  to 
what  one's  own  dignity  allows  one  to  concede. 
It  isn't  altogether  a  question  of  preference.  I 
might  prefer  a  reconciliation  on  any  terms,  and 
yet  not  feel  justified  in  bringing  it  about  at  a 
compromise.  But  I  will  go  to  him,  and  will  do 
all  I  can  to  make  him  see  the  right." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  the  right,  Albion?  "  Mrs. 
Harding  asked  with  questioning  eyes.  She  was 
not  used  to  doubting  her  husband's  judgment, 
but  this  was  involuntary.  "  Sometimes  it  looks 
the  other  way  to  me.  These  things  are  very  con- 
fused, but  if  it  should  be  all  wrong?" 

Mr.  Harding  did  not  .answer.  He  was  tired. 
He  told  himself  that  he  could  not  explain  it  clear- 
ly enough  for  her.  He  might  fail  to  make  her 
see  that  he  was  seeking  the  good  of  others,  and 
only  incidentally  his  own  gain, —  through  con- 
tumely and  malignity,  a  martyr  to  his  industrial 
ideals.  He  was  very  weary  of  self-justification, 
of  the  endless  cudgelling  of  his  brain  for  ex- 
cuses. He  only  added  a  word  of  warning  that 
he  might  not  raise  her  hopes  of  a  reconciliation 
too  high. 

252 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  must  caution  you,  Evelyn,  not  to  expect 
too  much.  Such  an  attempt  is  well-nigh  useless. 
I  am  only  making  it  to  prove  to  you  that  I  am 
not  indifferent  to  your  wishes.  I  hope  for  noth- 
ing from  it.  The  matter  has  gone  too  far  to  ad- 
mit of  any  such  simple  settlement." 

Albion  Harding  awoke  that  night  after  a  brief, 
unrefreshing  sleep.  The  moonlight  filled  his 
room.  Through  the  open  door  he  could  hear  his 
wife  stir  uneasily,  and  then  knew  by  her  soft, 
regular  breathing,  that  she  slept  soundly  once 
more.  In  the  utter  stillness  of  the  house  he 
alone  was  restless,  harassed,  wakeful.  He  had 
never  known  until  lately  these  midnight  panics 
where  the  perspiration  stood  cold  upon  his  fore- 
head at  the  thought  of  the  future.  The  consola- 
tions which  he  could  bring  to  his  aid  were  of 
little  use  to  him  after  all.  Failure,  even  if  it  en- 
tailed no  actual  deprivation  to  himself  and  his, 
was  a  humiliation  which  he  could  not  bear  to 
think  of.  He  turned  fiercely  to  preventive  meas- 
ures. He  would  not  fail.  The  time  was  past 
when  the  American  could  give  quarter ;  and  now, 
providentially,  the  ruin  of  a  rival  seemed  much 
more  a  matter  of  course  than  it  had  done  a  year 
ago.  The  president  of  the  big  corporation  had 
all  an  adept's  impatience  of  a  bungler  to  help 

253 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

him  harden  his  heart.  He  was  so  sure  that  he 
could,  through  his  subordinates,  manage  these 
manufactories  better  than  their  owners,  that  it 
had  come  to  seem  well-nigh  legitimate  to  take 
them  by  force.  Then,  he  argued  with  himself 
fiercely,  they  had  been  given  every  opportunity 
to  come  in  on  generous  terms  —  many  of  them, 
at  least.  He  grew  more  relentless  as  he  pon- 
dered on  their  ingratitude. 

His  anger  was  most  active  against  the  oppo- 
nents whom  he  met  daily  on  the  streets.  Ord- 
way  he  dismissed  with  a  scornful  smile;  he  had 
heard  but  yesterday  that  the  conservative  man 
had  been  borrowing  heavily,  and  knew  that  only 
desperate  straits  would  drive  him  to  that  meas- 
ure. But  Theodore  —  he  held  his  breath  as  if 
the  thought  even  might  disturb  his  wife  in  the 
next  room.  How  should  he  be  dealt  with? 
Burnham  and  Burkhardt,  who  represented  two 
widely  different  standpoints,  were  agreed  on  this 
matter.  Adversity  would  not  harm  his  son. 
Even  in  thought  Mr.  Harding  did  not  say  to  him- 
self what  must  be  done,  in  case  his  embassy  of 
reconciliation  should  fail. 

He  awoke  unrefreshed,  with  grey  face  and 
sunken  eyes,  and  after  a  weary  pretence  at  break- 
fast took  his  way  down  to  his  son's  mill,  deter- 
254 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

mined  to  have  the  useless  interview  over  as  soon 
as  possible. 

All  looked  prosperity  at  the  factory.  Big 
drays  were  unloading  before  a  side  building,  the 
even  thunder  of  machinery  came  through  the 
windows  open  to  the  mild  winter  air.  Mr. 
Harding  entered  the  main  door  and  walked  slow- 
ly down  the  central  passage  between  the  machin- 
ery. The  faded  women  had  on  their  faces  a  lit- 
tle more  of  hope  than  usual,  so  he  thought. 
There  were  hints  of  attempts  at  improvement 
here  and  there.  Factory  life  had  lost  a  little  of 
its  sordid  aspect. 

He  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  son's  room,  fol- 
lowing a  curt  word  of  direction.  He  rapped 
and  was  confronted  by  a  startled  face.  Theo- 
dore's first  thought  was  that  only  some  ill  tidings 
of  his  mother  could  have  brought  his  father  there. 
Where  Mrs.  Harding  was  concerned,  when  she 
was  present,  the  two  men  met  in  a  fashion  more 
friendly  than  of  old,  the  elder  dissembling  his 
outraged  feelings,  Theodore  friendly  in  truth. 
Elsewhere,  however,  Mr.  Harding  usually  vouch- 
safed his  son  nothing  more  than  a  polite  greeting. 
Theodore's  first  word  was  therefore  a  question. 

"Mother?     Is  she  well?" 

:<  Yes,  your  mother  is  well,  Theodore,  don't  be 
alarmed.  I  come  from  her  —  an  ambassador 

255 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

from  a  high  power,"  and  he  smiled  at  his  own 
conceit.  "  Your  mother  thinks  that  if  we  do  our 
best  we  may  come  to  some  ground  of  settlement 
of  our  difficulties.  I  must  confess  that  I  am  not 
so  sanguine — ."  He  paused.  There  seemed 
nothing  to  say  which  had  not  been  said  already. 

"  Mother  doesn't  understand,"  said  Theodore 
gravely. 

"  No,  and  I  only  promised  because  I  could  not 
bear  to  deny  her.  But  if  you  could  give  up  your 
schemes,  Theodore  ?  " 

"  It  is  just  as  hopeless  as  for  me  to  ask -you  to 
give  up  yours,"  Theodore  answered  quietly.  "  I 
know  I  am  not  important,  like  you.  I'm  not  a 
man  of  a  thousand,  one  who  can't  be  replaced. 
But  what  would  you  think  of  me  —  what  could  I 
think  of  myself —  if  I  gave  it  up  now?  " 

"  And  no  offer  that  I  can  make  will  influence 
you?  You  shall  have  your  own  price  for  your 
factory, —  within  reason,  I  mean.  Can  I  show 
my  desire  to  be  on  good  terms  with  you,  my  son, 
in  any  better  way  than  this?"  Mr.  Harding's 
voice  was  very  earnest. 

"  Father,  I  don't  doubt  that  you  want  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  me  if  you  can.  But  don't  you 
see  that  matters  have  gone  too  far  for  us  to  be 
anything  but  enemies  in  business?  I  hope  we 
need  not  carry  it  outside." 
256 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  hope  not.  But,  Theodore,  do  you  realize 
what  it  is  all  coming  to  —  what  it  must  end  in?." 
Mr.  Harding  questioned. 

"  I  suppose  I  know  what  you  mean, —  that  I 
shall  be  ruined,  unless  you  are  willing  to  let  us 
live  on.  Mind,  I  don't  ask  for  any  different 
treatment  than  you  give  the  rest;  but  you  have 
almost  unlimited  power.  We  don't  harm  you. 
You  don't  need  to  dread  our  competition.  You 
say  you  can  produce  cheaper  than  we  can.  You 
can  control  the  market,  anyway.  It's  a  simple 
proposition  enough  in  one  way.  Just  let  us 
alone." 

The  young  man's  whole  heart  went  into  his 
plea.  All  the  months  of  repression  and  silent 
struggle  found  vent  at  last  in  these  few  words. 
He  waited,  with  eagerly  parted  lips,  for  his  fa- 
ther's response. 

But  Mr.  Harding  was  silent.  He  could  not 
tell  his  son  that  the  question  was  not  so  simple  as 
it  appeared.  He  could  not  explain  that  the  big 
American  did  dread  competition.  He  could 
not  offer  the  justification  for  his  action  which 
was  ready  on  his  lips.  Circumstances  were 
strangely  against  this  Moses  of  the  industrial 
world.  The  fates,  with  grimly  smiling  lips,  were 
playing  strange  tricks  with  him. 
257 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

He  sighed,  and  as  he  gazed  at  his  son's  eager, 
passionate  face  the  glow  died  out  of  it. 

"  But  of  course  you  will  do  as  you  see  fit.  I 
have  no  right  to  suggest,"  the  younger  man 
added  apologetically. 

"  I  cannot  do  as  you  suggest,  Theodore.  The 
integrity  of  the  American  depends  on  a  clear  field. 
That  is  the  very  essence  of  the  conception.  I 
have  the  interests  of  my  constituents  to  consider. 
And  I  must  warn  you  if  you  persist  —  I  cannot 
discriminate.  You  will  do  well,  if  you  can  bring 
yourself  to  it,  to  get  rid  of  your  business  as 
soon  as  possible." 

Mr.  Harding's  tone  was  full  of  meaning. 
Theodore  looked  his  father  full  in  the  face  and 
answered  quietly: 

"  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean,  father !  " 

The  keen  eyes  sank  under  the  look  in  the 
milder  ones  opposite.  Albion  Harding  had 
many  deeds  of  the  combine  on  his  conscience. 
Under  the  accusing  gaze  these  rose  up  one  by 
one  to  confront  him,  and  were  ready  with  their 
accusation.  His  hands  clasped  and  unclasped 
nervously. 

"  I  sometimes  think  I  have  blundered  some- 
where," he  said  slowly.  "  There  must  have  been 
some  mistakes.  But  it  is  cruel  that  for  a  blunder 
such  punishment  should  come.  I  cannot  even 
258 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

explain  myself  to  you.  I  cannot  give  my  reasons. 
Only  believe  I  have  them,  imperative  ones.  It 
is  a  hard  problem  for  me  as  well  as  for  you.  I 
believe, —  I  believe  I  have  done  right.  I  have 
taken  every  step  for  the  best,  as  I  saw  it.  And 
if  ever  the  time  comes  when  you  find  it  hard  to 
believe  this  —  when  everything  seems  against 
me  —  remember,  Boy,  I  have  tried  to  do  right." 
The  old  familiar  name  of  the  days  of  his  child- 
ish companionship  with  his  father  touched  Theo- 
dore beyond  measure.  The  eyes  so  like  in  color, 
so  different  in  expression,  met  for  a  moment  soft- 
ened by  tears,  and  Theodore  stretched  out  his 
hand  half-shyly  to  his  father's. 


259 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Theodore  ran  blithely  downstairs  one  March 
morning  with  his  dog  at  his  heels.  The  two 
were  bound  for  breakfast  and  their  healthy  ap- 
petites hurried  them.  The  keenness  of  the  early 
air  brought  a  delightful  tingle  to  the  face,  and 
yet  a  promise  that  the  noon  would  be  warm. 
Between  the  near-by  buildings  the  hills  across 
the  river  showed  softly  brown,  with  here  and 
there  a  laggard  snow-bank  flecking  their  sides. 
Theodore  fancied  that  the  snowdrops  and  crocus 
would  be  already  starring  the  lawn  up  at 
home.  The  maple  twigs  showed  swollen,  knob- 
by buds.  The  gossiping  sparrows  in  the 
branches,  constant  winter  citizens  though  they 
were,  still  seemed  harbingers  of  spring. 

Spring  thoughts  come  to  one  on  a  morning  like 
this.  Theodore  was  wondering  how  long  it 
would  be  before  he  could  tempt  the  trout  in  dis- 
tant pools.  Dave  bounded  along,  reconnoitering 

260 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

every  dark  alley  and  by-way  for  cats,  and  jubi- 
lantly driving  up  flocks  of  sparrows  and  pigeons. 
The  man's  step  rang  out  sharply  in  the  deserted 
streets,  the  dog's  sharp  bark  startled  the  echoes 
from  the  opposite  buildings.  The  day  was  new, 
the  year  all  promise. 

Suddenly  a  chance  word  overheard  on  the 
street  took  all  the  brightness  out  of  the  day  for 
Theodore.  William  Ordway  had  failed. 

The  news  came  to  the  young  man  as  a  great 
shock.  He  had  been  in  New  York  for  a  week 
and  had  only  reached  home  late  the  night  before. 
This  would  account  for  the  fact  that  he  had 
heard  no  rumor  that  this  was  impending;  but  he 
realized  remorsefully  that  Mr.  Ordway  had  vol- 
untarily spoken  little  of  his  affairs  of  late,  and 
that  he,  himself,  had  not  questioned.  Had  he 
known,  he  might  have  helped  his  friend  to  tide 
over  the  crisis,  or  he  might  at  least  have  offered 
sympathy.  He  told  himself  gloomily  that  he 
had  shown  too  little  understanding  of  the  strange, 
silent  man's  forebodings. 

The  cruelty  of  it  all  came  over  him  as  he  gazed 
out  of  the  window  with  his  breakfast  unfinished. 
This  man  had  no  interests  outside  the  business 
where  he  had  labored  so  ungrudgingly.  Now 
these  had  been  taken  from  him.  And  for  what? 
Not  in  the  inevitable  business  struggle  for  life, 
261 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

not  even  to  insure  the  existence  of  the  American, 
not  in  the  greed  for  money  —  somehow  that 
would  have  seemed  more  legitimate  than  this; 
but  in  a  cruel  caprice.  The  man  who  prided 
himself  on  his  dexterity  with  the  organ  was  now 
finding  the  same  delight  in  playing  on  men  and 
states. 

In  an  anger  which  admitted  no  thought  of 
mitigating  features,  Harding  took  his  way  to  the 
Ordways'  little  house.  Mrs.  Ordway  was  dust- 
ing the  sunny,  crowded  living  room,  lifting  the 
belongings,  wiping  them  and  putting  them  down 
as  methodically  as  if  there  were  no  such  things  as 
trouble  and  failure  in  the  world.  But  now  and 
then  a  slow  and  unwilling  tear  found  its  way 
down  her  furrowed  face.  Her  eyes  were  red 
and  her  whole  face  looked  haggard  and  drawn. 
All  Harding  could  say,  as  he  took  her  plump 
hand  in  his,  was : 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Mrs.  Ordway!  I  feel  as  if  it 
were  partly  my  fault.  I'm  sure  I  could  have 
helped  him  in  some  way  if  I  had  only  known." 

"  I  asked  him  why  he  didn't  go  to  you,  but  I 
couldn't  git  much  out  of  him.  He  ain't  one 
that  talks  much  to  women  folks,"  Mrs.  Ordway 
answered. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  have  known.  I  was 
a  fool  to  need  telling.  I  thought  all  along  that 
262 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

he  was  too  gloomy,  and  lately  he  hasn't  said  any- 
thing. If  I  had  only  been  at  home  when  it  hap- 
pened, I  might  have  been  able  to  do  something," 
Theodore  went  on  self-reproach  fully. 

"  Well,  there  ain't  any  use  cryin'  over  spilt 
milk.  What's  done  is  done."  There  was 
silence  in  the  room.  The  woman  looked  out  of 
the  window  with  dreary,  red-rimmed  eyes. 

"  I  do'  know  what  in  the  world  we're  goin' 
to  do,  Mr.  Harding,"  she  continued  after  a  pause. 
"  I  ain't  dast  to  ask  him  anything.  He  come 
in  an'  told  Faithy  and  me  last  night  an'  then  went 
right  upstairs  to  bed,  an'  he  seemed  to  be  sleepin' 
all  night.  He  didn't  seem  to  want  to  talk,  an' 
I  ain't  said  anything.  Do  you  suppose  we  owe 
much?" 

"  Of  course  I  can't  say,  Mrs.  Ordway,"  Theo- 
dore replied  as  cheerfully  as  he  could.  "  You 
may  not  owe  anything.  Mr.  Ordway  may  have 
property  he  cannot  realize  on  at  present.  It 
sometimes  happens  that  way,  and  he  is  a  cautious 
man.  He  would  hardly  borrow  heavily,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort." 

"  I  wonder  if  we'll  have  to  sell  the  house.  It's 
the  first  house  we  ever  owned,  an'  all  the  things 
in  it  are  so  pretty.  I  do'  know  how  I  could  bear 
to  give  it  up.  An'  father  is  so  proud  of  every- 
thing, too  —  an'  here's  the  settin'  room  carpet. 
263 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

I'm  sure  it  wouldn't  fit  any  other  room,  all  cut 
up  into  jogs  the  way  it  is.  I'm  sure  I  do'  know 
what  we  shall  do  about  it."  Mrs.  Ordway  wiped 
away  the  tears  which  flowed  more  freely  now. 
The  problem  of  the  sitting-room  carpet  gave  a 
concreteness  to  her  affliction  which  made  it  more 
easy  to  realize  and  deplore. 

Theodore  sat  listening  to  the  lament.  He 
knew  with  his  sympathetic  insight  that  neither 
Faith  nor  her  father  could  talk  over  a  trouble; 
and  realized  how  hard  the  forced  repression  must 
be  for  Mrs.  Ordway.  All  she  needed  was  the 
look  of  pity  in  his  eyes  to  draw  her  on  to  further 
speech. 

''  There's  the  stained  glass  window  in  the  hall ! 
I  don't  s'pose  it  made  any  difference,  do  you? 
Father  didn't  really  seem  to  want  it,  nor  the 
hardwood  floor  in  the  dinin'  room,  an'  I  kind  of 
insisted.  If  I'd  mistrusted  I  wouldn't  have  said 
anything  about  'em,  of  course;  but  he  ought  to 
have  explained.  Well,  all  is,  we'll  have  to  go 
away  an'  leave  'em.  I  ain't  blaming  anybody, 
an'  I  don't  want  to  make  it  any  harder  than  'tis 
for  father,  but  it  just  seems  as  if  I  must  talk  to 
someone,  an'  Faithy  ain't  one  of  the  talkin' 
kind." 

She  finished  rapidly  as  the  sound  of  steps  was 
heard  in  the  hall,  and  Mr.  Ordway  came  heavily 
264 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

into  the  room.  He  took  Theodore's  hand  in  a 
lifeless  grasp  and  tried  to  smile  in  answer  to  the 
stammered  words  of  sympathy.  He  made  but 
sorry  pretence,  however,  and  sank  wearily  into  a 
chair  by  the  window. 

"  Mother,  if  you  have  any  influence  at  all 
over  this  self-willed  man,  you  will  make  him  eat 
some  more  breakfast.  All  I  could  get  him  to 
take  was  a  cup  of  coffee."  Faith's  tones  were 
cheerful  but  her  eyes  were  apprehensive. 

"  My  head  aches  so  I  can't  eat,"  Mr.  Ordway 
answered. 

"  I  feel  angry  with  you,  Mr.  Ordway,"  Theo- 
dore said.  "  You  should  have  told  me  how 
things  were  going." 

"  What  good  would  that  have  done?  You've 
got  all  you  can  tend  to  yourself.  I'm  sorry  I 
couldn't  stand  by  you  better.  I  done  my  best, 
at  any  rate.  I've  given  Albion  Harding  con- 
siderable trouble,  an'  he  ain't  done  with  it  yet." 
There  was  still  a  ring  of  determination  in  the 
tired  voice. 

'''  You'll  get  your  matters  straightened  out  in 
a  few  weeks  and  then  we'll  sail  in  and  smash  the 
American,"  Harding  answered  with  cheerful  ex- 
aggeration. 

:<  You  can't  rely  much  on  me,"  Mr.  Ordway 
answered  wearily.  "  I  guess,  mother,  I'll  step 
265 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

upstairs  an'  lay  down.  My  head  aches  consider- 
able." 

"  I  do'  know's  Ellen's  made  the  bed,"  Mrs. 
Ordway  said  helplessly.  Her  practical  hold  on 
everyday  affairs  seemed  suddenly  to  have  desert- 
ed her. 

"  I'll  go  and  see  to  everything,"  said  Faith 
cheerily.  "  Come  on,  father,  a  good  long  sleep 
is  just  what  you  need." 

That  day  was  the  first  of  many  long  and  anx- 
ious ones  in  Mr.  Ordway's  little  house.  Its  mas- 
ter lay  unconscious  in  a  lingering  fever.  The 
tidings  grew  less  hopeful  as  time  passed.  The 
sick  man  seemed  wholly  without  strength  or  wish 
to  rally,  and  made  no  fight  for  life.  The  two 
women  waged  the  losing  battle  with  no  help  from 
their  patient,  and  grew  daily  more  worn.  Theo- 
dore never  saw  Mrs.  Ordway.  Faith  sometimes 
answered  his  inquiries,  with  a  white  face  that 
tried  hard  to  be  hopeful.  It  worried  the  young 
man  to  see  them  wearing  themselves  out  for  lack 
of  the  aid  which  they  needed,  and  at  last  he  spoke 
what  was  in  his  mind. 

"  You  ought  to  have  a  trained  nurse,  Faith." 

"  I'm  a  trained  nurse  myself,"  she  replied,  try- 
ing to  smile. 

"  That's  all  right.  But  you  and  your  mother 
are  getting  all  worn  out,  Faith.  I'm  not  going 
266 


to  let  you  get  sick."  He  had  tacitly  assumed 
of  late  the  right  to  care  for  the  girl's  welfare. 

"  Thank  you  for  caring.  But  we  must  do  as 
father  would  have  wished.  We  don't  know  that 
we  have  anything  at  all.  It  would  be  different  if 
it.  altered  his  chances.  Then,  of  course,  we 
should  feel  that  extra  expenses  were  justifiable. 
But  we  both  know  about  nursing,  and  Dr.  Rice 
says  we  are  doing  everything." 

"  At  least  have  some  woman  not  so  expensive 
as  a  trained  nurse,  who  will  help  you  out  and 
give  you  a  chance  to  rest.  I  needn't  tell  you, 
Faith,  that  anything  that  I  can  do  with  money 
or  any  way  to  spare  you  —  I  owe  you  on  my 
own  account  and  my  father's."  The  voice  un- 
consciously dropped  at  the  words :  "  Your  fa- 
ther's money  has  been  distributed  in  the  divi- 
dends of  the  American.  That's  why  you  have 
no  money." 

"  Don't,  Theodore ! "  Faith  said  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "  You  didn't  get  any  of  the  dividends, 
you're  not  responsible.  If  we  really  come  to 
need  help  — ."  Her  voice  faltered.  She  could 
neither  argue  with  him  nor  thank  him ;  her  tired 
brain  refused  the  necessary  words. 

At  last,  one  afternoon,  Mrs.  Ordway  fainted 
at  her  husband's  bedside,  and  Faith,  with  a  double 
anxiety,  sent  for  Harding.  He  searched  Under- 
267 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

hill  through  for  a  nurse,  but  in  vain.  Its  little 
staff  was  all  employed.  When  he  returned,  dis- 
heartened and  unsuccessful,  the  maid  opened  the 
door  for  him  with  swollen  eyes. 

"  Miss  Faith's  up  with  him.  Poor  man,  the 
doctor  told  me  there  wa'n't  no  hope  for  him, — 
and  him  such  a  kind  soul,"  and  she  burst  into 
noisy  weeping. 

"  Hush,  Ellen,  while  there's  life  there's  hope," 
Theodore  said  soothingly.  "Do  you  suppose  I 
could  see  Miss  Faith  a  moment  upstairs  ?  " 

He  told  Faith  of  his  unsuccessful  search  and 
his  hope  that  a  nurse  would  come  in  the  morning, 
and  asked  leave  to  share  her  watch.  He  was 
prepared  for  opposition  but  none  came.  Faith 
was  so  weary,  so  anxious  about  her  mother,  so 
numb  with  the  great  dread  that  hung  over  her, 
that  she  did  not  protest.  Then,  too,  though 
there  had  been  no  spoken  word  of  love  between 
them,  there  was  now  the  dependence  of  an  un- 
spoken affection. 

Save  for  his  care  of  Reid  in  the  wilderness 
Harding  had  had  no  experience  with  illness. 
But  he  was  deft  and  skilful.  Soon  he  was  tak- 
ing charge  of  the  medicine,  nourishment  and  ice- 
packs, leaving  Faith  to  attend  to  her  mother,  or 
snatch  if  possible  some  rest.  She  was  at  hand 
on  a  couch  in  the  corner  of  the  sick  room,  ready 
268 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

to  come  to  his  assistance.  Once  he  dropped  a 
gay  blanket  softly  over  her,  thinking  she  slept, 
only  to  see  her  eyes  open  and  the  faintest  flutter 
of  a  smile  pass  over  her  quivering  lips. 

For  the  first  hours  of  the  night  Mr.  Ordway 
drowsed  heavily,  and  no  sound  disturbed  the 
quiet  of  the  room,  save  the  occasional  movements 
of  the  nurse,  or  the  soft  purr  of  the  fire  on  the 
hearth.  But  by  and  by  the  patient  began  to  talk, 
brokenly  at  first,  then  more  coherently  as  he 
gained  an  illusive  strength. 

The  talk  was  all  of  business,  with  the  cares  and 
triumphs  of  early  and  later  years  strangely  min- 
gled in  his  delirium.  Sometimes  he  was  the  day- 
laborer  going  to  the  morning's  work  in  the 
factory,  dinner-pail  in  hand;  sometimes  the  mill- 
owner,  fighting  a  losing  battle  against  forces  too 
strong  for  him;  sometimes  he  was  cheering  his 
wife  in  times  of  adversity,  sometimes  talking  to 
his  workmen,  or  bitterly  arraigning  Albion 
Harding  and  corporate  greed.  Theodore  sat 
watching  the  shadows  of  the  night  lamp  and  the 
wayward  flickering  of  the  firelight,  and  listened 
uneasily,  half-guiltily  to  this  reserved  man's  reve- 
lation of  himself. 

"  Yes,  Mattie,"  the  monotonous  voice  rambled 
on,  "  some  day  we'll  hev'  a  home  of  our  own.  I 
wish't  we  could  have  it  now,  before  you're  all 
269 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

wore  out  workin'  an'  waitin'  for  it.  I  tell  you, 
Faithy  ain't  goin'  to  want  for  things  the  way 
you  hev'  done.  She's  a  good  girl  and  a  pretty 
one,  an'  she  deserves  better'n  we  can  do  for  her. 
But  there,  so  did  you,  an'  you  ain't  got  it  yet. 
But  you  shall  hev'  it,  never  you  fear — .  Don't 
you  put  any  meat  in  the  dinner-pail  today.  I 
had  it  yesterday  an'  you  need  it  mor'n  I  do  any 
way,  now.  I  tell  you  the  baby  ain't  comin'  into 
a  very  rich  home,  but  it'll  have  enough  some 
day  — .  Yes,  I  tell  you,  I'm  goin'  to  own  the  mill 
some  day.  They's  lots  of  men  begun  at  the  bot- 
tom an'  worked  up  to  more  than  that.  An'  now 
the  old  man's  dead  an'  Albion  Harding's  comin' 
back  from  foreign  parts.  I  wonder  what  kind 
of  a  manufacturer  he'll  make  — .  You  can  talk 
about  Albion  Harding  all  you  want  to,  mother. 
It  ain't  always  the  man  that  speaks  the  most  in 
prayer  meetin'  or  gives  the  most  money  to  col- 
leges that's  the  best  man.  An'  he's  driven  that 
woman  —  what  was  her  name  ?  Well,  never 
mind  what  he  did  —  you  all  know,  everybody 
knows.  He's  a  thief  an'  a  murderer  —  just  the 
same  as  — .  You  can  talk  about  the  combine  an' 
all  those  things,  but  I  tell  you  it's  Albion  Hard- 
ing an'  nothin'  else." 

The  husky,   broken   voice   went   on   with   its 
charges,  and  the  name  of  Albion  Harding  was 
270 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

uttered  over  and  over  again,  in  tones  of  accusa- 
tion and  warning  and  fear. 

"  Yes,  if  Albion  Harding  ruins  me  —  an'  I 
don't  see  what's  to  hinder, —  I  shan't  stay  by  to 
see  it  done.  They'd  be  better  off  without  me  — 
mother  an'  Faith.  I  couldn't  do  anything  for 
'em.  I'm  too  old  to  start  fresh.  They'd  git  on 
better  if  I  was  out  of  the  way.  My  revolver's  all 
loaded  an'  I  wouldn't  wait.  An  'then,  Albion 
Harding  can  know  he's  a  murderer." 

The  voice  rose  higher  and  huskier  in  its  ac- 
cusation, and  Theodore  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  It  seemed  that  he  could  not  stand  longer 
the  sound  of  those  upbraiding  tones  with  their 
note  of  terror,  the  sight  of  that  flushed,  distorted 
face.  Suddenly  Faith  was  kneeling  by  his  side 
with  her  hand  on  his. 

"Don't  listen,  Theodore,  don't  listen!"  she 
said  with  a  tender  break  in  her  voice.  "  He 
doesn't  know  what  he  is  saying."  Even  her  love 
and  pity  could  not  constrain  her  to  say  that  it  was 
untrue. 

"  It's  all  true,"  said  Theodore  shortly. 

;<  You're  not  to  blame! "  she  whispered.  "  You 
have  been  true  and  honorable  throughout.  You 
have  tried  to  undo  the  harm  he  has  done.  You've 
done  all  you  can." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  hardly  knew  or  cared 
271 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

for  her  words  of  comfort  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
abasement.  He  let  her  hand  unclasp  from  his, 
unnoticed  in  the  depth  of  his  sad  thoughts.  But 
he  heard  every  word  that  the  hoarse  voice  mur- 
mured in  strange  confirmation  of  the  girl's 
words. 

"  No,  if  there  ever  was  a  gentleman,  he's  one. 
He's  always  done  the  honorable  thing  by  me,  an' 
if  Faithy  does  care  —  do  you  really  think  she 
does,  mother  ?  —  He'll  make  her  a  fine  hus- 
band. His  father's  doin's  ain't  anything  against 
him,  if  Faithy  cares  — " 

Harding  heard  no  more.  He  raised  the  girl's 
face  and  looked  into  the  eyes  that  met  his  stead- 
ily, in  spite  of  the  wave  of  color  that  flooded  the 
weary  face. 

"Is  it  true,  Faith?     Do  you  care?" 

He  saw  that  the  quivering  lips  formed  a  half- 
articulate  "  Yes,"  and  raised  her  face  till  their 
lips  met. 

It  was  a  strange  and  unexpected  betrothal, 
with  the  harsh  voice  of  delirium  in  their  ears, 
with  the  dread  of  the  worst  hovering  over  them. 
They  clung  together  for  a  moment,  and  then  Faith 
rose  calmly  and  sought  her  mother. 

With  a  swift  thought,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
new  happiness,  Harding  opened  the  drawer  in  the 
little  table  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  There  lay  an 
272 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

old  revolver  rusty  and  uncared  for,  but  freshly 
loaded  with  cartridges  which  glinted  bright  and 
new  in  the  firelight.  He  emptied  the  chambers 
and  put  the  cartridges  in  his  pocket,  hoping  that 
he  had  disarmed  any  suspicions  which  the  words 
of  the  sick  man  might  have  aroused. 

"  No,  I  can  feel  very  little  hope,"  Dr.  Rice  said 
gravely,  when  he  came  at  midnight.  "  He  has 
been  under  a  great  strain  which  has  sapped  his 
vitality.  There  has  been  nothing  in  the  disease 
itself  to  warrant  such  an  ending,  but  he  seems 
to  have  no  wish  to  live." 

'  There  is  not  much  left  for  him  to  live  for," 
said  Harding  sadly.  "  He  was  bound  up  in  his 
business.  It's  the  easiest  way  out  for  him." 

The  next  afternoon  when  Harding  called  to 
inquire,  the  red-eyed  maid  told  him  that  Mr.  Ord- 
way  was  dead. 


273 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Theodore  knew  that  his  engagement  to  Faith 
Ordway  could  only  give  his  mother  pain.  He 
climbed  the  hill  next  day,  dreading  to  tell  her, 
yet  eager  to  get  the  interview  over.  He  was 
unmindful  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  of  the 
plash  of  water  and  the  spring  music  of  birds. 
He  tried  to  break  the  news  gently,  but  the  best 
that  he  could  achieve  was  the  blunt  statement  of 
the  fact. 

"  Theodore,  what  have  you  been  doing !  "  his 
mother  asked  sharply,  a  frown  gathering  on  her 
smooth  forehead. 

"  I  have  told  you,  mother.  Aren't  you  going 
to  congratulate  me  ?  " 

"Why  should  I?"  she  said  bitterly. 

"  Why  should  you  ever  congratulate  a  man?  " 
was  Theodore's  quick  response. 

"  But,  Theodore,  I  thought  you  cared  for  Mar- 
garet?"    There  was  a  note  of  personal  griev- 
ance in  Mrs.  Harding's  voice. 
274 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  thought  I  did,  too,  but  that's  all  over  now. 
Margaret  is  engaged  to  another  man." 

"  But  if  you  cared  for  her?  " 

"  I  never  did  as  much  as  I  thought.  I  know 
now.  And  it  was  broken  off  finally  before  she 
went  to  Washington.  She  knew  best  all  the 
time,"  Theodore  responded  cheerfully. 

"  And  you  are  ready  to  settle  back  into  her 
class  in  life?  You  can't  introduce  her  to  the 
people  you  have  always  known,"  Mrs.  Harding 
persisted. 

"  Why  not  ?  She  has  just  as  good  manners 
and  just  as  good  an  education  as  any  of  them. 
She  may  not  know  a  few  little  wrinkles  that  come 
from  practice,  but  you  and  Althea  can  put  her 
on  to  them.  About  settling  back  to  her  class  — 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Her  father  is  a 
manufacturer  —  was  a  manufacturer,  and  so  is 
mine." 

Mrs.  Harding  flushed  and  answered  with  dig- 
nity :  "  He  was  a  common  workman  in  your 
father's,  in  your  grandfather's  mill,  wasn't  he? 
Didn't  you  tell  me  that?  He  certainly  talked 
like  it.  He  called  me  '  marm.' ' 

"  Well,  he  is  out  of  your  way  —  and  father's, 
poor  man.  As  for  his  being  a  common  workman 
in  my  father's  mill  —  I've  been  one  myself.  I've 
done  everything  from  the  commonest,  dirtiest 

275 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

work  up.     We're  pretty  even  on  that  score,   I 
should  say." 

"  It  was  different  for  you,  you  didn't  have 
to.  You  could  stop  whenever  you  wished." 

"  Yes,  it  was  different.  There's  no  particular 
hardship  in  a  thing  like  that  when  you  know  it's 
only  for  a  year  or  two.  It  is  settling  down  to  it 
for  life  that  takes  the  grit.  Mother,  shall  I  tell 
Faith  that  you  will  call  on  her  soon?  "  he  added 
abruptly. 

"Of  course,  Theodore;  if  you  are  determined 
to  marry  the  girl  I  must  be  polite  to  her.  But 
why  are  you  going  to  do  it?  With  so  many 
pretty  girls  of  your  own  set  who  would  be  glad 
to  marry  you  ?  " 

Theodore  laughed  wholesomely,  not  only  at 
his  mother's  despairing  tone,  but  at  her  partial 
estimate  of  himself. 

"  Just  mention  some  of  them,  mother.  They 
have  never  seemed  anxious  to.  And  about  this 
matter  of  class, —  Faith  is  a  good  deal  more  the 
sort  of  girl  I  want,  and  need,  than  these  girls  up 
here  on  the  hill.  Don't  you  know,  mother,  I 
never  quite  belonged  with  the  rest  of  you?  I'm 
more  at  home  with  the  mill  people  and  plain  folks 
like  the  Ordways.  They  take  to  me  more  than 
the  other  kind,  too.  Margaret  never  thought  I 
was  good  enough  for  her." 

276 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Margaret  was  a  foolish  girl,"  said  Mrs. 
Harding  sharply.  Margaret  had  not  yet  been 
forgiven. 

"  At  any  rate,  mother,  Faith  and  I  are  en- 
gaged." The  subject  of  Margaret  had  no  more 
interest  for  Theodore.  "  Can't  you  love  her  at 
first  because  I  do  ?  Later  you  will  do  it  for  her- 
self. You  don't  know  how  wise  and  sensible  she 
is.  Let  me  tell  you  about  the  workman's  restau- 
rant down  in  River  Street.  Faith  has  run  that." 

"  You  told  me  about  it,"  Mrs.  Harding  replied 
coldly.  "  But  I  should  hardly  have  thought  her 
mother  would  have  let  her  do  it.  It  was  no 
place  for  a  young  girl  among  all  those  rough 
men." 

"  But,  mother,  she  isn't  a  young  girl." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  should 
not  have  gone  down  there  unchaperoned,"  Mrs. 
Harding  replied  severely. 

"  Her  mother  was  often  there,"  said  the  young 
man  in  discouraged  tones,  "  and  there  were  two 
women  who  worked  there,  and  the  men  were  al- 
ways kind  and  respectful." 

"  It  only  shows,  Theodore,  how  standards  dif- 
fer. She  has  been  trained  in  a  wholly  different 
walk  of  life  from  yours." 

Theodore    made    no    response.     He   was    too 
tired  and  discouraged  for  speech. 
277 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Ought  I  to  call  on  her  before  the  funeral  ?  " 
Mrs.  Harding  interrupted  his  thoughts. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  don't  know  the  etiquette  of 
the  business.  If  you  could  go  feeling  like  a 
mother  to  her,  I  should  ask  you  to  go  now.  But 
as  it  is,  you  would  better  wait  until  it  is  all  over. 
Poor  Faith !  "  and  he  sighed  deeply. 

Just  then  a  step  sounded  outside  and  Mr. 
Harding  entered  the  room.  The  smile  faded 
from  his  face  at  sight  of  Theodore ;  his  own  con- 
science did  not  acquit  him  of  some  instrumental- 
ity in  Ordway's  ruin.  He  felt  that  his  own  skil- 
ful justification  of  himself  would  not  appeal  to 
his  son.  Burnham  had  interpreted  freely  certain 
liberties  given  him,  and  had  precipitated  the  busi- 
ness trouble  which  the  pressure  of  the  American 
had  rendered  inevitable.  Mr.  Harding  feared 
that  his  son  would  tell  him  of  this.  Theodore, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  no  more  anxious  for  an 
interview  than  was  his  father,  for  he  knew  that 
he  could  not  trust  himself.  He  was  moving  to- 
ward the  door  after  a  quiet  greeting  when  Mrs. 
Harding  stopped  him. 

"  You  mustn't  go,  Theodore ;  your  father  will 
wish  to  hear  your  news." 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  pause  in  which 
one  waited  for  the  other  to  speak.  Finally  Theo- 
dore said  abruptly: 

278 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Mother  means  my  engagement  to  Miss  Ord- 
way." 

Again  there  was  silence.  The  clock  chimed 
out  five  silvery  strokes,  the  fire  snapped,  a  blue- 
bird outside  trilled  persistently.  Mrs.  Harding 
saw  from  the  faces  of  the  two  men  that  she  had 
made  a  mistake.  She  had  relied  too  implicitly 
on  the  statement  which  Mr.  Harding  had  made 
after  his  last  interview  with  his  son, —  that  they 
were  friends  in  everything  outside  of  business. 
She  hastened  to  interpose. 

"  Theodore  tells  me  that  Miss  Ordway  is  a 
very  charming  girl,"  she  faltered. 

"  Theodore  has  certainly  had  opportunities  for 
knowing,"  Mr.  Harding  responded  coldly. 

"  A  man  usually  has  before  he  asks  a  woman 
to  marry  him,"  Theodore  answered. 

"  And  you  really  mean  that  you  have  let  the 
matter  come  to  this,  Theodore?"  Mr.  Harding 
queried. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir." 

"  I  would  hardly  have  thought  Mrs.  Ordway 
capable  of  so  much  finesse,"  Mr.  Harding  said 
deliberately. 

"If  you  mean  that  she  has  brought  this  about 
you  were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life.  She 
would  have  every  reason  to  refuse  her  consent. 
279 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

You  can  perhaps  guess  what  I  mean,"  Theodore 
replied  hotly. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  what  objection  Mrs. 
Ordway  could  possibly  have,  Teddy.  I'm  sure 
any  mother  might  be  glad  to  have  you  for  a  son," 
Mrs.  Harding  ventured  pacifically.  She  trem- 
bled before  the  storm  she  had  unwittingly  raised. 

Mr.  Harding  stood  silent  in  terror  of  the  ac- 
cusation which  he  saw  upon  his  son's  lips.  One 
person  in  the  world  still  believed  in  him  implicit- 
ly. It  was  something  to  go  home  quivering 
from  the  real  thrusts  and  fancied  slights  of  the 
day,  to  an  atmosphere  of  unfailing  love  and  trust. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  relinquish  the  one  balm 
which  could  restore  the  untroubled  self-esteem 
of  former  years.  He  said  hastily : 

"  We  need  not  go  into  the  matter  of  Mrs.  Ord- 
way's  feelings,  Theodore.  They  are  after  all 
immaterial.  There  are  objections  enough  on  our 
side  without  going  farther.  I  suppose  your 
mother  has  made  plain  to  you  how  extraordinary 
this  match  is.  Do  you  care  nothing  for  what 
people  of  your  own  walk  in  life  will  say  of  it?  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid  that  anything  that  I  can  do  — 

even  more  disgraceful  things  than  this  —  can  do 

much  harm  to  the  family  name.     It  has  too  many 

epithets  of  a  certain  sort  tacked  to  it  now  to  make 

280 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

it  a  thing  to  be  proud  of.     I  should  think  you 
might  realize  that." 

Theodore's  face  was  white  even  to  the  lips,  his 
eyes  blazing.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
full  at  his  father,  then,  without  a  word,  he  left 
the  room. 

The  two  faces  haunted  Mrs.  Harding  even 
until  the  next  day.  Her  long  social  experience 
stood  her  in  good  stead;  and  although  righteous 
anger  and  convicted  guilt  were  not  common  in  her 
experience  she  recognized  something  of  their 
value.  Then  there  had  been  Theodore's  harsh 
taunt  as  to  the  esteem  of  the  family  name.  Why 
had  Mr.  Harding  not  refuted  it  ?  It  seemed  that, 
in  whatever  lay  between  them,  Theodore  was  in 
the  right  and  his  father  wrong.  Evelyn  Hard- 
ing felt  a  strange,  dull  oppression  of  spirits,  which 
the  musical  jangling  of  the  bluebird  and  robin 
and  sparrow  among  the  swollen  buds,  and  the  joy 
of  the  spring  sunlight  could  not  dispel.  At 
length  she  made  a  definite  effort  to  shake  off  her 
depression,  ordered  her  carriage  and  started  to 
take  Althea  for  a  drive. 

She    found   alleviation   of   her   mood   in   her 

daughter's  chatter.     Althea  was  full  of  Oakley's 

projected  trip  to  Washington  and  the  fact  that 

she  was  to  accompany  him.     She  was  full,  too, 

281 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

of  Theodore's  engagement,  and  Mrs.  Harding 
roused  herself  to  decided  warmth  in  Faith's  favor 
by  championing  her  cause  against  Althea.  Mrs. 
Harding  sometimes  recognized  the  fact  that  Oak- 
ley's rapidly  growing  reputation  was  strongly 
influencing  his  wife.  Money  had  been  more  plen- 
tiful in  the  little  home  since  Oakley's  connection 
with  the  American.  His  reputation  for  brilliancy 
and  clearness  of  thought  had  grown  throughout 
the  term  of  the  state  legislature.  Prosperity,  it 
seemed,  had  come  to  stay.  Althea  had  grown 
assured,  daring,  meddling  a  little  in  politics,  echo- 
ing her  husband  with  an  original  air  that  made 
people  pronounce  her  clever.  With  returning 
health,  too,  she  was  fast  approaching  a  brilliant, 
dainty  beauty.  Mrs.  Harding  could  prophesy 
for  her  daughter  a  social  future.  And  yet  she 
left  her  at  her  door  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  The 
younger  woman's  assurance  of  success  jarred  up- 
on her. 

As  she  stopped  at  a  little  bookstore  on  her  way 
home,  the  bold  lettering  on  a  magazine  cover 
caught  her  eye.  "  Albion  Harding,  A  Character 
Study."  It  was  one  of  the  lighter  periodicals 
which  she  did  not  see  at  home,  and  she  resolved 
to  surprise  Mr.  Harding  with  it.  She  could 
fancy  his  laugh,  half-amused,  half-satirical. 

The  frontispiece  was  a  copy  of  Sargent's  cele- 
282 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

brated  portrait  of  Mr.  Harding.  She  looked 
at  it  critically  as  she  stood  waiting.  It  had  al- 
ways seemed  to  her  the  perfection  of  portraiture. 
The  poise  of  the  head,  with  its  characteristic  up- 
ward thrust  of  the  clean-cut  chin;  the  sweep  of 
the  mustache;  the  silvery  light  on  the  hair;  the 
slender,  vigorous  hand  resting  carelessly  on  the 
chair-arm;  each  tiniest  detail  expressed  to  the 
full  the  man's  dominant  personality.  Suddenly 
there  flashed  in  its  place  the  haggard  face,  lined 
and  shadowed,  with  shrinking,  guilty  eyes.  The 
contrast  with  this  look  of  tireless,  untried  youth 
shocked  her. 

"  I  am  morbid.  How  I  fancy  things !  "  she 
had  whispered,  and  left  the  store  with  the  maga- 
zine. 

When  she  reached  home  the  open  fire  in  the 
library  invited  her.  The  sky  had  clouded  and  a 
cold  wind  had  chilled  her  in  spite  of  her  furs. 
After  her  lonely  meal  she  settled  herself  cozily 
for  the  perusal  of  the  article. 

It  opened  in  a  light  personal  vein,  with  de- 
tails both  true  and  complimentary  to  its  subject. 
Suddenly,  with  no  transition,  its  tone  changed. 
Mrs.  Harding  read  on  breathlessly.  She  had 
never  known  more  of  the  American  than  her  hus- 
band had  told  her.  Now  its  dealings  were 
detailed  with  clearness  and  spirit,  with  cold  cita- 
283 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

tions  of  time  and  peace.  Moreover,  this  ruthless- 
ness,  double-dealing,  theft  and  murder  were  laid 
by  implication  at  its  president's  door.  She  hur- 
ried through  each  paragraph,  going  back  now 
and  then  to  read  more  slowly.  The  day  clouded 
still  more  and  the  room  grew  dusky.  Still  she 
sat  there  with  the  magazine  open  at  the  Sargent 
portrait.  She  was  seeing  things  clearly.  Such 
journalistic  comment  as  this  would  justify 
Theodore's  taunt  of  the  day  before.  She  knew 
now  why  the  daily  papers  came  no  longer  to  the 
house.  She  knew  the  meaning  of  the  haggard 
face  that  so  often  smiled  at  her  across  the  break- 
fast table.  Could  it  be  true  ?  —  one  least  word  of 
it,  of  the  man  whom  she  had  known  so  well  and 
known  so  stainless?  So  absorbed  was  she  that 
she  did  not  heed  her  husband's  step  in  the  hall 
or  on  the  library  floor,  until  he  stood  by  her  side. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  wide,  startled  eyes 
and  closed  the  magazine  sharply.  He  took  it 
from  her  clinging  hands  without  a  word  and 
glanced  at  it.  Her  eyes  fell;  she  could  not  see 
his  face  for  tears,  but  stared  instead  at  the  blurred 
fire.  She  heard  his  breath  caught  sharply,  his 
short,  angry  laugh,  and  then  the  magazine  alight- 
ed in  the  flames  before  her,  scattering  the  brands 
out  upon  the  hearth. 

Mrs.  Harding  sat  silent  and  rigid,  watching 
284 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

the  leaves  curl  as  the  flame  took  them.  The 
keen,  militant  face  of  the  Sargent  portrait  caught 
her  eye  for  a  moment.  "  Albion  Harding,  Mon- 
opolist," stared  out  from  a  page  heading;  and 
then  the  mass  flared  up  for  a  moment  and  black- 
ened. 

"Well?" 

Mr.  Harding  spoke  abruptly.  His  tone  was 
harsh  and  at  variance  with  his  usual  courtesy. 
His  wife's  eyes  met  his  for  the  first  time  in  fear. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  about  it  ? ""  he  said 
more  gently,  as  he  noticed  her  involuntary 
shrinking. 

"  Oh,  tell  me  it  isn't  true,  dear!  "  she  said  with 
her  voice  breaking.  "  Of  course  it  isn't  true." 

"  I  have  tried,  Evelyn,  God  knows  how  I  have 
tried."  He  was  kneeling  now  with  his  arm 
about  her.  "  I  have  tried.  From  the  start  I 
meant  that  this  big  association  should  stand  for 
truth,  and  honor,  and  uprightness  in  the  business 
world.  Mr.  Evans  called  it  the  '  Missionary 
Monopoly '  because  I  was  so  strenuous  that  it 
should  stand  as  an  example  to  all  the  world." 
The  name  which  had  once  stirred  Mr.  Harding's 
anger  had  now  come  to  have  a  subtle  comfort  of 
its  own  as  testifying  to  his  good  intentions. 

He  paused,  as  if  waiting  for  her  additional  jus- 
tification, but  she  was  silent. 
285 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  may  have  made  blunders.  I  know  I  have. 
Circumstances  have  been  too  strong  to  combat 
with  unfailing  success.  Some  difficulties  arose 
that  no  one  could  foresee."  He  spoke  with  such 
bitterness  that  she  knew  he  meant  Theodore's  op- 
position. "  But  I  am  not  beaten  yet.  I  can  see 
my  way  clearer  to  the  end  than  I  have  yet  done. 
And  the  end  once  gained,  all  the  things  that  I 
have  dreamed  of  will  be  possible." 

There  was  silence  once  more.  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing's  throat  quivered  convulsively  but  she  could 
not  speak.  An  overpowering  dread  fell  over  the 
man's  heart.  Was  he  adjudged  guilty  at  this 
tribunal  also?  He  felt  suddenly  how  little  life 
would  be  worth  to  him  if  he  could  not  read  love 
and  trust  in  his  wife's  eyes.  All  the  unspoken 
shame  and  regret  and  remorse  of  the  past  months 
found  expression  in  the  choked  cry : 

"  Evelyn,  don't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  believe  you,"  she  said  softly, 
clasping  her  hand  over  his.  "  It  is  all  a  wretched 
mistake.  But  it  must  be  so  hard  for  you.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  and  let  me  help  you  bear  it." 

"  I  wanted  to  spare  you  trouble,  dear.  I 
hoped  you  need  never  know.  But  I  am  glad  to 
share  the  load." 

All  seemed  clear  between  them.  Albion  Hard- 
ing rejoiced  that  one  soul,  at  least,  believed  in 

his  integrity. 

286 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

The  troubles  of  the  American  increased  as  the 
sweet  days  of  the  northern  spring  lengthened. 
Oakley  and  General  Favor  were  fighting  desper- 
ately in  Washington  for  a  favorable  decision  to 
the  tariff  struggle;  but  meanwhile  the  industry 
was  paralyzed  throughout  the  country.  Burk- 
hardt  was  keeping  up  American  shares  on  Wall 
Street  by  fair  means  and  foul;  he  was  even,  by 
unprecedented  juggling,  creating  a  little  show  of 
activity  there.  Everyone  knew,  however,  that 
it  was  a  false  prosperity.  To  be  sure,  the  opposi- 
tion was  likewise  depressed,  and  could,  in  fact, 
hardly  be  designated  by  so  concrete  a  name. 
Had  the  American  wished  to  buy  it  would  have 
found  treating  with  its  rivals  an  easy  matter. 
Theodore  alone  had  been  more  vigorous  in  his 
measures  of  late,  growing  strenuous  as  he  came 
to  suspect  that  Burnham  had  brought  about  Ord- 
way's  failure  in  the  interest  of  the  American. 
287 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Anger  gave  his  usually  conservative  nature  a 
strange  rashness. 

Mr.  Harding  alone  seemed  untroubled.  In 
reality  he  was  resolutely  shutting  his  eyes  to  the 
dreaded  possibilities  of  the  future.  He  did  each 
day  all  that  was  in  his  power  of  thought  and  ac- 
tion for  the  great  corporation,  then  he  dismissed 
the  matter  from  his  mind.  He  spent  long  hours 
with  his  wife,  his  books,  his  organ;  he  grew  to 
have  a  curious  fondness  for  seeing  his  name  in 
print  with  allusions  to  his  great  power. 

He  sat  at  his  desk  one  May  morning  with  a 
daily  paper  before  him.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
a  cartoon  of  himself  seated  at  his  desk,  pressing 
a  row  of  little  buttons.  These  were  connected 
by  wire  with  the  Senate  chamber  of  the  United 
States,  where  puppets  sprang  up  and  down  at  his 
will.  The  likeness  was  excellent,  the  im- 
plication of  such  power  flattering.  The  deep, 
underlying  scorn  of  the  drawing,  the  shame  to 
the  nation  and  himself  that  there  should  be  the 
slightest  ground  for  such  a  suggestion,  escaped 
him. 

He  threw  the  paper  beneath  the  desk  as  he 

heard  a  familiar  footstep  without,  and  forced  a 

smile  of  greeting.     He  was,  in  truth,  weary  of 

Burnham's   interminable   discussion  of  forebod- 

288 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ings.  The  latter  was  full  of  a  new  grievance  as 
he  entered. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  boy  of  yours  has 
been  doing  now?"  he  said  in  tones  of  mingled 
anger  and  triumph.  "  You  know  that  mill  of 
Lambert's  in  North  Lee, —  the  one  that  the 
American  bought  and  sold  a  man  named  Grant 
for  a  tannery  ?  Well,  your  son  has  bought  it  and 
is  fitting  it  out." 

'  Yes,  I  had  heard.  It  seems  a  rash  move  in 
the  present  state  of  things,"  Mr.  Harding  an- 
swered calmly. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  "  Burn- 
ham's  tones  were  curt. 

"About  what?" 

"  See  here,  Harding !  We've  beat  about  the 
bush  long  enough.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  the  boy  ?  " 

Mr.  Harding  flushed.  "  If  the  tariff  is  ar- 
ranged to  suit  us  we  need  not  fear  his  opposi- 
tion," he  answered. 

"  Well,  and  if  it  isn't?  The  one  thing  that  I 
can  see  to  save  the  American  from  an  absolute 
slump  will  be  to  have  Theodore  out  of  the  way. 
That  will  practically  kill  the  opposition.  I  know 
it's  hard  on  you.  I  don't  wonder  you  try  not 
to  see  that  it  has  got  to  be  done."  Burnham  was 
289 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

forced  to  sympathy  by  the  look  on  his  compan- 
ion's face. 

"  He  is  young  and  hopeful,  just  starting  out  in 
life.  Financial  troubles  will  be  hard  for  him  to 
bear,"  the  father  said. 

"  Oh,  he'll  bear  them  all  the  easier  if  he's  young 
and  hopeful,  and  he  surely  doesn't  deserve  much 
consideration,  supposing  you  had  any  right  to 
discriminate." 

The  moment  which  Albion  Harding  had 
dreaded  for  so  long  had  come  and  found  him  un- 
prepared. It  seemed  almost  impossible,  even  in 
the  midst  of  the  anger  and  grief  which  he  felt  at 
the  thought  of  his  son,  to  do  this  thing.  But 
Burnham  pressed  the  matter. 

"  You  can  make  it  all  up  to  him  later,  but  it's 
got  to  be  done." 

"  I  have  no  assurance  that  he  will  let  me  make 
it  up  to  him." 

"  You  have  stood  a  good  deal,"  Burnham 
urged  with  some  subtlety.  "  A  good  many  men 
would  have  put  him  in  his  place  to  start  with. 
He  is  spoiled ;  hard  times  will  be  good  for  him." 

Mr.   Harding  was   silent.     Burnham's   words 

had  brought  back  to  his  mind  all  the  injuries  and 

disappointments    he    had    suffered    at    his    son's 

hands  from  early  years  up  to  the  present.     Last 

290 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

and  most  cruel  of  all,  the  son  was  forcing  upon 
his  conscience  one  more  guilty  stain. 

"  You  can't  expect  me  to  devise  means  for  the 
ruin  of  my  own  son,"  he  said  peevishly.  "  I 
leave  it  all  to  you.  Only  mind  this ;  no  personal 
harm  must  come  to  him  —  and  —  don't  use  dis- 
honorable means.  Do  you  mind  going  now? 
I  don't  care  to  discuss  it  any  more." 

Burnham  puckered  his  lips  as  he  went  down- 
stairs. "  Quite  a  proposition !  Honorable 
means !  "  he  said,  and  laughed  shortly. 

Burnham,  however,  was  in  no  mood  for  laugh- 
ter. He  was  a  man  who  preferred  to  look  life 
straight  in  the  face,  who  found  no  pleasure  in  a 
fool's  paradise.  All  that  made  life  worth  living 
money  gave  him ;  unlike  Mr.  Harding,  he  had  no 
inexpensive  pleasures.  If,  with  the  wreck  of  the 
American,  should  come  his  own  financial  ruin, 
and  with  it  a  cessation  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
race-course,  the  gaming  table,  the  palate,  he 
knew  that  he  would  not  scruple  to  end  existence. 
This  possibility  did  not  seem  far  distant,  as  he 
regarded  the  situation  with  eyes  just  clear 
enough  to  see  the  dangers  but  not  the  grounds 
for  hope.  Meanwhile  he  had  every  incentive  to 
struggle  and  no  scruples  to  hinder  him. 

He  had,  however,  the  qualms  of  Albion  Hard- 
ing's  conscience  to  consider.  He  knew  clearly 
291 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

enough  that  the  president  of  the  American  was 
willing  to  sacrifice  time,  convenience,  ease,  money 
to  the  great  cause,  but  was  yet  eager  to  keep  in- 
tact his  good  opinion  of  himself.  He  compre- 
hended, in  a  measure,  that  Mr.  Harding  was 
willing  to  give  up  much  of  honest  self-knowledge 
to  keep  this  inner  approbation  unsullied;  and 
realized  that  it  would  be  for  his  own  advantage 
to  observe  strictly  his  chief's  hint  as  to  his  un- 
willingness to  assist  at  his  own  son's  downfall. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  this  partial 
liberty  at  his  disposal  as  regarded  means.  He 
saw  plainly  that  radical  measures  were  neces- 
sary, but  he  was  unwilling  to  incriminate  himself 
in  any  way.  He  knew  that  Mr.  Harding  did 
not  like  him,  and  foresaw  shrewdly  that  if  the 
agent  should  become  involved  in  anything  crim- 
inal the  principal  would  not  come  to  his  assist- 
ance. Mr.  Harding's  caution  as  to  honorable 
means  he  dismissed  without  further  thought. 

He  was  walking  the  streets  of  the  valley  late 
one  May  evening,  restless  after  a  harassing 
evening,  when  a  sudden  shower  sent  him  into  the 
doorway  of  the  Labor  League  Hall  for  shelter. 

He  slipped  casually  into  a  vacant  seat,  and  in 
a  moment  was  absorbed  by  the  words  which  he 
heard.     Max  Rubinovitch,  the  Russian  Jew  and 
labor  leader,  was  speaking. 
292 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Yes,  men,  Albion  Harding  would  smile  if 
he  heard  me  say  that  he  and  men  like  him  are 
paving-  the  way  for  State  Socialism.  But  I  tell 
you  it's  true.  The  trust,  in  all  its  blackness,  is  an 
angel  of  light.  When  the  trust  has  grown 
stronger,  and  has  taxed  the  people  a  little  more, 
it  will  find  that  its  day  is  over.  Let  it  grow  like 
some  magnificent,  deadly  Upas  tree,  until  the 
plain  people  of  the  country  shall  rise  and  say 
there  shall  be  no  more  rich  and  poor,  no  more 
classes  and  masses;  that  each  man  shall  give  to 
the  perfect  state  the  best  of  his  labor  and  ability, 
and  exact  from  it  shelter  and  food,  comfort  and 
simple  pleasures,  and  protection  in  age  and  sick- 
ness." 

Burnham  heard  no  more.  Something  in  the 
words  had  suggested  a  plan  to  him,  wild  and 
chimerical,  yet  more  of  a  clue  to  his  perplexing 
problem  than  any  he  had  yet  found.  He  gazed 
at  the  speaker  keenly.  He  had  been  familiar 
with  the  face  for  several  years.  Their  times 
of  coming  and  going  had  fallen  together,  as  the 
ways  of  men  will  do,  in  a  city  large  or  small. 
He  noted  a  marked  deterioration  in  the  man's 
appearance.  His  brilliant  coloring  had  faded  to 
an  unhealthy  greyness,  his  dress  was  untidy. 
Here  and  there  the  rich  flow  of  words  faltered 
for  a  moment.  The  voice  had  grown  harsh  and 

293 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

husky  in  certain  notes.  Burnham,  gazing  fixed- 
ly, thought  the  man  had  been  drinking.  If  this 
surmise  were  true,  it  simplified  as  well  as  com- 
plicated the  plan  which  had  suddenly  flashed  over 
him. 

He  waited  until  the  meeting  was  over  and  then 
linked  his  arm  familiarly  through  Rubinovitch's, 
and  spoke  carelessly. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Rubinovitch,  all  this  business 
you  have  been  talking  about  big  combines  inter- 
ests me  immensely." 

"Does  it?"  Rubinovitch  inquired  apathetical- 
ly. The  stimulus  of  his  eager  audience  gone,  he 
had  grown  listless. 

"  You  really  mean  to  say  that  you  think  the 
success  of  trusts  would  finally  secure  your  reign 
of  socialism,  or  whatever  you  call  it  ?  " 

"  Surely,"  said  Rubinovitch  with  more  anima- 
tion. "  The  people  are  hard  to  rouse,  but  the 
rule  of  shameless  greed  will  excite  them  at  last." 

"  And  you  think  things  look  that  way  even 
now?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  any  one  can  doubt  it.  Look 
at  the  power  trusts  are  getting  everywhere.  They 
almost  have  power  of  life  and  death  over  their 
men.  They  will  use  any  means  to  crush  opposi- 
tion. They  control  more  than  half  the  state 
legislatures,  and  they  are  going  to  control  the 
294 


THE    WARS    OF    PEACE 

national  one.  They  grind  the  poor  all  the  time  and 
heap  up  money  and  give  it  away,  and  you  never 
find  an  institution,  however  holy  its  pretences 
may  be,  however  it  may  pose  before  the  world, 
that  won't  take  their  money,  stained  by  blood  and 
the  sweat  of  unpaid  toil  though  it  is.  I  say  the 
money  better  stay  where  it  belongs  in  the  first 
place,  than  be  heaped  up  by  foul  means  and  given 
away  in  charity.  It  isn't  charity  that  the  work- 
men want,  but  the  independence  which  is  their 
due." 

Rubinovitch  was  talking  wildly  in  his  platform 
tones,  and  with  a  platform  exaggeration.  Burn- 
ham,  sensible  of  the  absurdity  of  the  situation, 
guided  his  excited  companion  back  to  the  more 
practical  aspect  of  the  subject  by  a  skilful  ques- 
tion. '  Then  you  think  people  who  oppose  the 
combine  are  really  hindering  progress  ?  " 

'''  The  less  opposition  they  meet  the  sooner 
they'll  drive  the  people  to  action,"  Rubinovitch 
said  decidedly. 

"  And  measures  against  the  opponents  of  the 
trust  would  bring  about  the  end  you  are  after 
sooner  than  measures  against  the  trusts  them- 
selves." 

''  Yes,  I  suppose  it  follows,"  Rubinovitch  said 
thoughtfully.  "  One  can't  help  sympathizing 
with  the  fight  against  monopolies,  but  practi- 

295 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

cally  I  suppose  their  opponents  are  only  delaying 
the  time  when  the  people  will  rise  and  sweep 
the  monopoly,  along  with  the  government  it  con- 
trols, off  the  face  of  the  earth." 

The  two  men  separated,  and  Rubinovitch  -went 
home  to  his  poor  room,  sparely  furnished  save 
for  the  many  books  which  he  had  collected 
through  years  of  study.  He  sat  awhile  by  his 
window  in  deep  and  bitter  thought.  He  was  a 
disappointed  man,  alien  alike  to  his  own  race 
and  that  in  which  he  had  sought  adoption.  He 
knew  that  he  had  never  made  the  place  for  him- 
self which  his  talents  merited.  Ill-health  and 
pain  had  robbed  him  of  his  splendid  physique, 
and  the  insidious  habit  which  had  come  of  suf- 
fering had  worked  havoc  with  his  keen,  self- 
schooled  brain.  Max  Rubinovitch  realized  bit- 
terly that  he  was  a  failure.  He  had,  however, 
his  consolations.  He  knew  that  he  swayed  his 
audiences  as  never  before,  and  something  like  in- 
toxication seized  him  as  he  exerted  this  power 
to  the  utmost.  Sometimes  in  his  clearer  mo- 
ments he  knew  that  much  of  his  speech  was  wild 
and  florid,  without  ordered  thought;  even  then, 
however,  he  recognized  its  power,  a  power  that 
clearer  thinking  lacked.  The  one  idea  reiterated, 
had  acquired  a  force  in  the  simple  minds  he  dom- 
inated which  nothing  could  neutralize. 
296 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

He  had  another  alleviation  in  his  dreary  lot. 
Books  had  begun  to  fail  him  of  late;  but  in  their 
place  had  come  something  even  more  satisfying. 
A  certain  small  white  powder  could  fill  the  room 
with  glowing  Utopias.  He  measured  out  a 
portion  of  this  on  the  evening  of  his  conversa- 
tion with  Burnham,  and  soon  the  ideal  state, 
rose-colored  and  confused,  but  perfectly  real  and 
vivid,  took  shape  before  his  half-closed  eyes.  He 
dreamed  of  a  time  when  a  man  should  be  a  man 
and  nothing  more,  and  each  traveller  through 
life  could  walk  erect  and  unaided. 

Only  a  few  days  later  Burnham,  driving  rap- 
idly, overtook  Rubinovitch  and  asked  him  to 
ride.  They  sat  for  a  while  in  silence,  then  Burn- 
ham  said  abruptly : 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  that  theory  of 
yours !  "  He  tried  to  smile,  but  his  heavy  form 
was  almost  trembling  with  excitement.  These 
few  minutes  might  mean  so  much. 

"  What  theory  ? "  queried  Rubinovitch  ab- 
stractedly. 

"  Why,  your  indirect  way  of  getting  rid  of 
trusts  by  destroying  all  opposition  and  letting 
them  ruin  themselves.  It's  quite  a  scheme.  You 
see  I'm  a  little  interested  in  one  combine  myself, 
and  I  confess  I  should  like  to  see  the  opposition 
to  it  wiped  out.  The  trust  would  last  out  my 
297 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

time  even  then,  I  guess,  and  after  that  — "  he 
laughed  grimly.  "  But  the  curious  thing  about 
all  you  theorists  is  that  you  never  seem  to  think 
of  putting  your  ideas  into  practice." 

"  When  the  time  is  ripe  you  will  find  us 
ready,"  Rubinovitch  said  musingly.  "  One  false, 
precipitate  step  might  delay  the  end  we  seek  by 
a  hundred  years." 

"  And  striking  while  the  iron  is  hot  hasten  it 
as  much.  But  there, —  theories,  theories." 

"  Not  all  theories,  either.  You'll  see  us  put- 
ting them  into  practice  when  the  time  is  ripe." 
Rubinovitch  spoke  defiantly. 

"  You'd  better  be  careful.  I  shall  expect  that 
you'll  be  blowing  up  Theodore  Harding's  mill 
next  thing,  so  that  the  American  shall  have  a 
clear  road  to  ruin." 

Burnham  laughed  as  if  the  idea  was  prepos- 
terous, but  Rubinovitch  did  not  seem  to  see  the 
humor  of  the  remark. 

"  You  think  that  would  destroy  the  opposi- 
tion? "  he  questioned  keenly. 

"  Can't  say  for  certain,  of  course ;  but  all  the 
rest  of  them  seem  to  be  on  their  last  legs." 

"  He  might  rebuild,"   Rubinovitch  suggested. 

"  Hasn't  got  the  money,  I'm  pretty  sure,  and 
he's  not  a  chap  to  do  much  borrowing.     It  would 
come  pretty  hard  on  him,  though." 
298 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Something  in  the  tone  jarred  on  Rubinovitch. 

"  Any  harder,  tell  me,  than  life  does  every  day 
on  two-thirds  of  the  human  race  ?  " 

"  He  hasn't  been  used  to  it,  you  see." 

"  Then  he  has  had  so  much  more  good  fortune 
than  the  rest  of  us.  Not  but  I  like  him.  He's 
the  one  man  in  this  city  or  this  country  either 
that  I  care  a  d — n  for.  But  there's  no  reason  he 
should  have  everything  and  I  nothing.  There 
are  men  just  as  good  as  he,  who  have  worked 
harder  every  day  of  their  lives,  and  have  died  in 
the  poorhouse  at  last." 

"  Do  you  suppose  this  revolution  of  yours  will 
come  without  violence?"  Burnham  asked  cas- 
ually. 

"  You  can  hardly  expect  the  final  upheaval  to 
come  without  bloodshed."  Rubinovitch  spoke 
calmly. 

"  But  if  you  could  blow  up  Theodore  Hard- 
ing's  mill  when  he  wasn't  in  it  you'd  prefer  to  do 
it,  then  ?  "  Burnham  laughed  as  if  the  putting  of 
Rubinovitch's  vague  theories  into  concrete  terms 
were  a  huge  joke. 

"  Of  course,"  Rubinovitch  said  abstractedly. 
He  had  drifted  once  more  into  the  dream  world 
which  bordered  his  life. 

That  night  the  young  man  sat  by  his  window 
299 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

until  late.  He  watched  the  passers-by  as  their 
number  gradually  lessened,  and  saw  the  glimmer- 
ing windows  darken  one  by  one.  He  saw  lamps 
whiten  in  the  early  radiance  of  the  East.  His 
head  was  full  of  dreams.  He  saw  himself  as  the 
agent  in  the  great  Millennium  for  which  he 
hoped.  The  shibboleth  of  his  creed,  "  From  each 
according  to  his  ability;  to  each  according  to  his 
need,"  was  something  more  than  an  epigram  to 
Max  Rubinovitch.  It  was  the  outline  of  a  pos- 
sible and  even  probable  state  of  society.  He  ad- 
mitted, as  he  pondered,  that  his  comrades  in  the 
cause  had  lacked  practicality.  It  was  time,  as 
this  plain  business  man  had  intimated,  that  theo- 
ries should  be  given  over  for  practice. 

One  decisive  step,  if  no  more,  was  possible. 
Theodore  Harding  once  out  of  the  way,  the 
American,  one  of  the  largest  of  the  big  monopo- 
lies, could  prosper  unhindered.  It  could  amass 
unlimited  wealth,  and  with  this  wealth  buy  every- 
thing it  craved,  even  up  to  the  power  of  govern- 
ment,—  everything  but  the  acquiescence  of  the 
people. 

That  at  last  would  come  to  an  end.  Then  the 
plain  men  of  the  country  would  spring  into  re- 
volt, peacefully  at  the  polls,  or  in  blood  on  the 
battle-field,  and  the  people,  at  last  triumphant, 
would  destroy  the  trust-subsidized  government, 
300 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

and  set  up  a  Utopian  republic  of  actual  equality. 
There  would  be  no  high  places  in  this  ideal  com- 
monwealth, save  in  the  memories  of  its  citizens, 
but  there  the  name  of  Max  Rubinovitch  would  be 
loved  —  as  that  of  the  one  who  had  struck  the 
first  blow. 

The  thought  came  back  to  him  again  and 
again,  night  after  night.  What  if  this  were  the 
decisive  moment  and  he  let  it  slip?  He  steeled 
his  heart  against  pity.  Harding's  suffering 
would  be  no  more  than  that  of  all  the  world  save 
the  chosen  few.  In  his  high,  drug-inspired  mood, 
he  found  no  qualms  of  conscience  to  hinder  him. 
His  mind  had  been  hardened  for  years  to  the  sac- 
rifice of  life,  if  it  were  necessary,  for  the  triumph 
of  a  principle.  He  had  gazed  too  often  in  fancy 
upon  bloody  battle-fields,  stained  for  the  cause 
of  the  people,  to  shrink  from  the  mere  destruc- 
tion of  property.  The  mill  was  not  Harding's, 
in  point  of  fact;  it  belonged  to  the  operatives, 
who  through  long  years  of  ill-paid  labor  had 
earned  it  for  him.  It  should  go  to  them,  at 
last,  if  not  for  years,  then  none  the  less  surely. 

Sometimes,  in  the  long  nights  in  which  he 
thought  of  these  things,  the  question  of  time 
would  trouble  him.  His  life  would  have  gone 
out  in  nothingness,  he  would  be  but  a  part  of  in- 
animate creation  once  more  when  the  new  regime 
301 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

should  set  men  free.  But  at  other  moments, 
when  his  hopes  glowed  highest,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  a  few  years  might  see  the  impossible  made 
possible,  the  bondman  at  liberty. 


302 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Theodore  was  puzzling  over  business  that 
spring  with  more  than  usual  concentration.  By 
Mr.  Ordway's  will  he  had  been  named  executor, 
and  in  this  way  had  fallen  heir  to  much 
of  trouble  and  perplexity.  It  was  indeed  dreary 
work,  trying  to  save  some  little  remnant  from  the 
general  wreckage,  a  labor  made  even  harder  by 
the  feeling  that  his  own  father  had  wrought  the 
ruin. 

It  seemed  as  if  William  Ordway  had  gone  mad 
in  the  last  six  months  of  his  life.  He  had  been 
for  sixty  years  plodding  and  prudent,  wasting 
nothing,  borrowing  nothing  even  in  times  of  ex- 
tremity. Then  all  at  once,  with  almost  certain 
failure  staring  him  in  the  face,  he  had  borrowed 
right  and  left,  apparently  regardless  of  what 
would  happen  to  his  wife  and  daughter  when  all 
was  over.  It  was  an  instance  of  the  insanity 
which  seems  to  lie  latent  in  the  sanest  minds, 
303 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ready  to  break  forth  when  circumstances  con- 
spire aright. 

When  matters  were  finally  settled  the  house 
remained  only  slightly  encumbered.  Faith  had 
fulfilled  her  jesting  prophecy  and  opened  the  lit- 
tle restaurant  on  a  business  basis,  with  an  abil- 
ity that  bade  fair  to  make  it  a  financial  success. 
Theodore  had  wished  to  take  their  burdens  upon 
himself,  and  had  urged  a  speedy  marriage. 
Faith,  however,  had  demurred,  anxious  to  prove 
her  competence  to  support  herself,  and  Theodore 
had  not  then  felt  inclined  to  plead  or  coerce.  He 
grew  impatient,  however,  as  the  spring  passed, 
and  he  could  see  no  reason  for  delaying  their 
marriage.  Days  spent  apart  had  grown  to  seem 
days  wasted  to  him.  A  feeling  new  to  him,  of 
fear  and  foreboding  at  his  own  happiness,  came 
sometimes  to  vex  his  lonely  moments.  He  could 
not  analyse  his  late  sense  of  foreboding,  but 
sometimes  the  thought  of  the  many  hazards  of 
living,  and  the  uncertainty  of  the  future  terrified 
him. 

One  day  in  May,  as  they  drove  among  the  hills 
to  the  north  of  Underbill,  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  speak  decisively.  He  had  determined  that  he 
would  not  be  put  off. 

"  I  want  to  talk  something  over  with  you, 
Faith.  I  don't  mean  to  be  unreasonable  or  to 
3°4 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

hurry  you,  dear;  but  I  want  to  know  when  you 
will  marry  me." 

"  Oh,  Theodore,  don't ;  not  for  a  long  time." 
There  was  something  like  fear  in  her  voice. 

"  Why  not,  Faith  ?  You  owe  me  a  reason," 
he  urged  gently. 

"  Only  think  how  short  a  time  we  have  been 
engaged, —  not  two  months,"  she  protested. 

"  What  does  that  have  to  do  with  it,  dear 
girl?  We  have  known  each  other  a  long  time. 
We  are  neither  of  us  likely  to  change." 

"  And  there's  mother." 

Theodore  was  very  patient.  "  You  won't 
have  to  leave  her.  We  can  live  together.  You 
can  go  on  with  the  restaurant,  if  you  insist, — 
you  may  have  to  support  your  bankrupt  husband 
that  way,  some  day.  I  don't  know  that  I  ought 
to  urge  it,  just  on  that  account."  He  turned 
suddenly  sober.  "  I  may  be  a  poor  man,  Faith ; 
there  is  always  that  to  consider.  But  I've  got 
my  two  hands  —  and  my  knowledge  of  the  busi- 
ness. Lots  of  people  start  with  no  more." 

"  That  doesn't  count  with  me,"  said  Faith  de- 
cidedly. "  It  would  be  strange  if  we  couldn't 
manage.  There's  always  the  restaurant,  you 
know,"  and  she  tried  to  laugh. 

"Then  you  will?"  he  questioned  eagerly. 
305 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Some  time,  of  course.  But  I  don't  want  to 
now." 

"  And  I  do.  I  don't  want  to  be  selfish,  and  if 
any  of  your  reasons  were  good  ones  I  think  I 
could  be  convinced.  If  you  have  any  feeling 
about  giving  up  your  liberty  —  or  anything  of 
that  sort,  don't  think  of  it  again.  You  shall 
have  the  same  freedom." 

"  It  isn't  that.  We've  neither  of  us  any  lib- 
erty worth  speaking  of,  even  now.  We  gave 
that  up  when  we  began  to  love  each  other." 

"  By  Jove,  that's  so !  "  said  Theodore  delight- 
edly. "  I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way  be- 
fore. But  what  is  your  reason,  then?" 

"  I  suppose  it's  because  this  is  so  beautiful  and 
satisfactory  that  I'm  afraid  to  spoil  it  by  trying 
for  anything  better.  It's  because  I'm  afraid," 
she  murmured,  half-shamefacedly. 

"  Faith,  I'm  sorry  to  insist,  but  just  talk  sense 
a  little.  Do  you  think  we  are  ever  going  to 
know  whether  we'll  be  happy  or  not  until  we 
try?  It  doesn't  do  any  good  to  put  it  off.  If 
anything  should  happen  to  either  of  us,"  his 
voice  broke. 

"  I  know  it,  dearest.  Sometimes  I  can't 
sleep  for  thinking  of  the  American  and  that  aw- 
ful Mr.  Burnham.  If  they  should  harm  you  in 
306 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

any  way  I  could  never  forgive  myself  for  refus- 
ing-" 

Harding  laughed  in  genuine  amusement. 

"  The  president  of  the  American  is  my  father, 
and  however  much  we  may  disapprove  of  his 
methods  I  don't  think  we  need  fear  that  he  will 
use  violence  toward  his  son.  But  as  you  say, 
you  would  feel  badly — "  he  was  taking  advan- 
tage, half- jestingly,  of  her  fears. 

"  And  you  are  making  fun  of  me.  It  isn't 
anything  to  joke  about." 

"  All  right,  I  won't.  I  never  felt  less  like 
joking  in  my  life." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  Harding  con- 
tinued : 

"  I  don't  want  to  play  the  baby,  Faith,  but 
you've  no  idea  how  lonely  I  have  been.  I  always 
was  a  fellow  who  liked  to  settle  down  at  home 
after  my  day's  work  was  done.  It's  almost  a 
year  now  since  I  had  a  home  at  all,  and  there 
wasn't  much  comfort  in  it  for  a  long  while  be- 
fore that.  I'm  getting  tired  of  living  the  way 
I  do.  A  dog  isn't  much  of  a  family,  after  all," 
and  he  laid  a  caressing  hand  on  the  head  of  Dave 
who  sat  on  the  bottom  of  the  buggy. 

They  were  bound  for  the  little  hunting  lodge 
in  the  woods  where  Theodore  had  spent  many 
happy  hours,  and  they  drove  on  in  almost  utter 

307 


silence  until  they  reached  their  destination.  But 
when  Theodore  opened  the  door  of  the  little  house 
Faith  uttered  a  cry  of  delight. 

She  went  about  the  long  room  and  they  dis- 
cussed some  improvements  upon  which  Theodore 
wished  her  approval.  She  admired  all  the  con- 
trivances for  comfort  willingly,  but  all  the  time 
she  was  deep  in  thought,  deciding  almost  with- 
out reflection  an  important  question.  Theo- 
dore's arguments  had  not  convinced  her,  but  his 
appeal  to  her  sympathy  had. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  as  they  moved  out 
side  by  side  upon  the  little  porch  and  gazed  up 
the  lake.  The  clouds  floated  rose-colored  above 
the  dark  pines.  The  wind  had  sunk  and  the  lake 
reflected  rose  and  green.  Bird-notes  jangled 
musically  in  the  Sabbath  air.  Suddenly  from 
afar  sounded  the  note  of  the  whip-poor-will. 

Theodore  drew  his  sweetheart  to  his  side. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  Faith  ?  "  he  said  gently. 

"It  is  beautiful!"  she  answered  softly. 
"  Shall  we  come  here  then  ?  " 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  he  caught  her 
meaning. 

"  When  ?  "  was  all  he  said. 

"Will  it  be  too  long  till  the  last  of  June?" 
she  answered. 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

As  the  June  days  drew  toward  their  longest, 
Underhill  talked  of  Theodore  Harding's  ap- 
proaching marriage,  of  his  father's  anger  and  his 
mother's  grief;  and  speculated  on  the  outcome  of 
the  business  struggle  between  Theodore  and  his 
lather.  No  one  guessed,  however,  least  of  all 
Theodore  himself,  that  the  American  was  in  des- 
perate straits ;  had  such  a  rumor  gone  abroad  the 
interest  would  have  been  more  intense.  Theodore, 
with  his  characteristic  belief  in  the  goodness  of 
human  nature,  never  suspected  for  an  instant  that 
his  rivals  meditated  any  harm  to  him. 

There  was  little  left  of  the  Theodore  Harding 
of  college  days  in  this  man  —  little  and  yet  much. 
There  was  the  same  joyous,  spontaneous  kindness 
and  friendliness  toward  all  the  world,  man  and 
brute;  there  was  the  same  lack  of  any  depth  of 
thought ;  the  man,  like  the  boy,  took  his  opinions 
ready-made ;  but  in  place  of  the  crude,  half-under- 
stood dissatisfaction  were  a  strength  and  poise  of 
which  the  boy  had  hardly  given  promise. 

Harding  had  a  fully  formed  aim  in  life,  justi- 
fied by  six  years  of  endeavor,  to  live  cleanly  and 
honestly,  making  the  best  of  himself.  He  had 
settled  to  his  work  with  the  conviction  that  it  was 
the  one  for  which  he  was  fitted,  with  the  certainty 
that  his  calling  was  a  high  and  honorable  one.  He 
had  dignified  even  commonplace  labor  by 
309 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

the  way  in  which  he  regarded  it.  With 
the  wild  young  lads  of  the  mills  Theodore  had 
been  particularly  successful.  He  had  known  all 
the  temptations  that  come  to  the  restless  nature, 
the  unfilled  mind.  His  past  experience  had  made 
him  tolerant  of  wrongdoing  in  others.  The  boys' 
clubs  which  he  had  organized  had  grown  beyond 
the  bounds  of  his  own  mill,  as  most  of  his  enter- 
prises did,  and  had  taken  in  many  lads  from  all 
Underbill.  One  day  Theodore  had  said,  half- 
bash  fully,  in  answer  to  some  comment  on  the 
growth  in  order  among  the  rough  youths: 

"  Do  you  know,  Frank,  you  are  responsible  for 
that,  partly.  When  I  see  a  fellow  going  the 
pace,  I  tell  him  what  you  said  to  me  once." 

"  What  was  that?  "  Reid  queried. 

"  Why,  you  said  if  I  had  a  young  brother  for 
whom  I  was  responsible,  I  would  do  the  best  for 
him  I  could,  not  get  him  into  scrapes ;  and  when 
he  was  in  them  I  would  help  him  out,  and  not 
call  him  down  too  hard, —  that  I  would  try  to 
make  just  as  much  of  a  fellow  of  him  as  I  could. 
That  made  me  think  more  about  it  than  I  ever 
did  before,  and  somehow  or  other  it  strikes  every 
fellow  I've  ever  said  it  to  the  same  way.  Of 
course  it  doesn't  always  last,  but  it  always  makes 
'em  think." 

"  You've  got  hold  of  them  in  some  way  or 
310 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

other,     Teddy.     There's     no     doubt     about    it 
You're  the  most  popular  man  in  Underbill." 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  Frank.  You're  a  flatterer.  I 
shall  begin  telling  you  some  truths  about  the 
'  Criterion,'  if  you  don't  look  out.  Evans  wrote 
me  the  other  day  that  you  would  make  it  the  most 
influential  paper  in  the  state  if  you  kept  on  as  you 
had  begun." 

It  was  only  a  week  from  his  wedding  day  and 
Harding  had  made  all  his  preparations  for  a  fly- 
ing trip  to  New  York.  Faith  and  he  were  to 
spend  their  honeymoon  at  the  camp  on  Clear 
Pond,  and  Theodore  wished  to  be  as  free  from 
business  cares  as  possible.  So  he  was  getting 
through  a  great  amount  of  work  beforehand. 
They  must,  of  course,  make  frequent  trips  back 
and  forth  —  Theodore  to  take  charge  of  the  mill, 
Faith  to  see  to  the  management  of  the  restaurant 
which  had  not  yet  been  given  up.  But  they  were 
sure  of  long  drives  in  the  morning  and  afternoon, 
of  sunsets  and  moonrises  over  the  lake. 

As  he  dressed  for  his  trip  that  afternoon  Hard- 
ing whistled  like  some  gleeful  blackbird,  com- 
panioned as  he  was  by  the  thought  that  on  his 
next  business  trip  to  New  York  his  wife  should 
go  with  him. 

He  ran  downstairs  with  his  bag  in  his  hand 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

and  the  dog  at  his  heels  and  met  Max  Rubino- 
vitch  lounging  beside  the  door.  Something  in 
the  listless  droop  of  the  man's  shoulders  and  his 
sunken  eyes  roused  Harding's  pity.  He  stopped 
now  on  a  friendly  impulse. 

"  Hulloa,  Rubinovitch !  "  he  said,  "  Were  you 
coming  up  to  see  me  ?  " 

The  other  looked  at  him  dully. 

"  No,"  he  answered. 

"  It's  just  as  well,  for  I'm  going  to  catch  the 
train  for  New  York.  But  say, —  why  don't  you 
come  around  sometime?  You've  given  it  up  al- 
together." 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  ?  "  Rubino- 
vitch asked  sullenly. 

"  Not  any,  may  be,  to  you,  but  it  does  to  me. 
We  used  to  have  some  splendid  talks.  I  never 
saw  a  man  I  could  disagree  with  better."  Theo- 
dore's tones  were  friendly. 

"  We  never  did  agree  very  well,"  said  Rubino- 
vitch slowly,  his  face  brightening  a  little  under 
Harding's  cordiality.  "  I  don't  agree  with  you 
over  the  stand  you  are  taking  about  the  trust. 
You  are  all  wrong." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  said  Harding  good-natured- 
ly. "  I  should  like  to  have  your  ideas  about  it. 
Come  around  the  first  of  the  week,  when  I  get 
home  from  New  York,  and  we'll  talk  it  over.  It 
312 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

may  be  your  last  chance  to  call  on  me  in  my  bach- 
elor den.     Good  bye." 

Harding  moved  hurriedly  down  the  street, 
fearful  lest  he  had  squandered  precious  time.  He 
had  meant  to  take  a  roundabout  route  in  order  to 
leave  the  dog  at  Mrs.  Ordway's,  but  on  looking 
at  his  watch  he  decided  to  send  him  back  from  the 
station.  His  haste,  however,  was  useless,  for,  as 
he  entered  the  station  square,  the  train  drew 
steadily  out. 

Harding  turned  on  his  heel  in  disgust.  There 
was  no  other  train  until  morning.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  go  back  to  the  mill,  and 
while  away  the  time  as  best  he  might.  Faith 
was  out  of  town  and  would  not  return  until  the 
next  day,  so  she  could  offer  no  resources.  He 
took  a  sudden  resolve  at  sight  of  a  small  boy. 

"  Hi !  Jimmy,"  he  called.  "  Going  anywhere 
in  particular  ?  " 

"  Coin'  up  to  me  grandmother's  on  the  'lec- 
trics.  What  you  want  ?  " 

"  I'll  give  you  a  quarter  if  you'll  take  this  bag 
up  to  the  mill  and  set  it  inside  the  side  door. 
See?" 

"  Yes,  boss,"  and  the  youngster  pocketed  the 
coin  joyfully. 

"  Here's  the  key.     Leave  it  with  Mr.  Casey  in 
the  mill.     I've  got  another." 
313 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Then  Harding  struck  out  at  an  easy  pace  on 
the  Baxter  Road,  with  the  dog  making  wide  cir- 
cuits on  either  side. 

The  fading  day  was  cool  and  the  roads  were 
hard  with  the  rain  of  the  night  before.  The  air 
was  resonant  with  bird-songs;  the  shadows 
stretched  long  before  him  as  he  went  toward  the 
East.  He  looked  back  with  pride  from  the  top 
of  a  hill  upon  his  chimneys  smoking  busily 
among  the  rest,  and  wondered  what  the  future 
had  in  store  for  all  his  business  plans.  Then  he 
turned  and  swung  out  into  the  country.  Nothing 
could  cloud  his  content  for  long. 

He  ate  his  supper  at  the  little  "  Cross  Road's 
Inn  "  far  out,  and  lingered  long  over  the  simple 
meal.  Then  he  trudged  back,  tired  and  happy, 
stumbled  upstairs  in  the  darkness,  leaving  Dave 
to  seek  his  usual  resting  place  of  warm  nights 
down  by  the  stream  side,  and  flung  himself  sleep- 
ily on  the  couch  without  undressing. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  Only  a  day  or  two  more  and  the  end  is  sure." 

Oakley  and  Mr.  Harding  were  seated  in  the 

library  talking  over  the  results  of  the  mission  to 

Washington.     The  latter  leaned  back  with  a  sigh 

of  relief. 

"  It  has  been  a  long,  hard  fight." 
"  That's  a  fact.  But  they  have  delayed  and 
compromised  and  squabbled  until  we  are  sure  of 
getting  what  we  wanted,"  Oakley  replied  a  little 
contemptuously.  "We've  got  what  we  wanted 
and  we've  paid  the  price,"  he  added  almost  reluc- 
tantly. His  air  had  a  strange  mingling  of  shame 
and  triumph ;  he  had  changed  in  some  subtle  way 
and  there  were  new  lines  in  his  good  humored 
face.  Mr.  Harding  interrupted  hastily. 

"  Much  hard  work  has  certainly  been  done." 
"  And  more  than  hard  work  has  gone  into  it," 
Oakley  commented  irritably.     "  You  have  called 
for  no  statement  of  our  expenditures." 

315 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  did  not  require  any.  I  felt  that  I  could 
safely  trust  the  matter  to  you." 

"  But  I  prefer  to  give  one,"  said  Oakley  reck- 
lessly, pouring  out  another  glass  of  wine. 
"Here's  a  list  of  —  " 

"  You  are  very  rash  to  carry  any  such  docu- 
ment about  with  you,"  Mr.  Harding  interposed 
hastily. 

"  It  would  tell  nothing  to  anyone  else.  It  is 
merely  a  list  of  names.  Aren't  you  going  to  look 
at  it?" 

"  I  prefer  not  to  see  it,"  the  president  of  the 
American  said  slowly.  "  Nothing  is  to  be  gained 
by  it,  that  I  can  see." 

Oakley  looked  at  his  father-in-law  with  a  slow- 
kindling  spark  of  anger  in  his  eyes.  The  pecul- 
iar moral  cowardice  of  the  man,  the  willingness 
that  the  deed  should  be  done,  if  only  in  some  way 
he  might  shirk  the  personal  responsibility, 
dawned  on  the  young  man  for  the  first  time. 

"  General  Favor  said  once,  '  Harding  thinks  he 
can  make  the  government  of  the  United  States 
engineer  his  personal  schemes  and  yet  keep  his 
hands  clean.  He'll  find  out  his  mistake  before 
he  get's  done  with  it/  "  Oakley  said  abruptly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  has  to  do  with  this 
matter.     The  fewer  people  who  know  of  this  the 
better,"  Mr.  Harding  persisted. 
316 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  That  doesn't  shift  your  personal  responsibil- 
ity." 

"  I  never  thought  it  did.  I  can  bear  the  onus 
of  responsibility  for  this  necessary  measure,"  Mr. 
Harding  responded  severely. 

"How  necessary?"  Oakley  asked  in  incredu- 
lous tones. 

"  If  that  measure  had  been  put  through  the 
American  would  have  gone  into  a  receiver's 
hands  inside  of  six  months." 

"You  don't  mean  it?"  said  Oakley,  truly 
shocked  by  this  sudden  news. 

"  Would  I  be  likely  to  jest  about  it?  Of  course 
this  is  in  the  strictest  confidence,  but  I  wanted 
you  to  know  that  I  am  hard  pressed.  Perhaps 
you  will  be  less  ready  to  criticise  now  you  know 
how  matters  actually  stand." 

"  I  admit  that  you  are  in  a  hard  place,  but  I 
don't  know  that  that  fact  saves  my  self-respect." 
The  tone  was  not  tolerant. 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  does.  I  can  only  point 
out  to  you  that  no  one  compelled  you  to  engage  in 
this  business  in  any  way.  The  blame  seems  to 
me  wholly  your  own.  You  knew  what  you  would 
have  to  do  if  you  went  to  Washington." 

Oakley  said  nothing.  His  eyes  were  cold,  his 
kindly  face  was  grim.  He  felt  that  he  had  lost 
his  honor  in  this  cause  and  had  little  sympathy 
31? 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

for  the  equivocations  of  the  man  who  had  urged 
him  to  his  shame.  He  had  yielded  good-na- 
turedly to  Mr.  Harding' s  wishes  and  the  increas- 
ing pressure  of  financial  difficulties,  and  had 
helped  spend  the  money  of  the  American  freely. 
He  dreaded  the  storm  of  censure  which  would 
arise  when  the  Barnes  bill  should  actually  come 
to  a  vote.  He  foresaw  that  his  name,  humble  in- 
strument though  he  was,  would  be  unfailingly 
associated  with  it. 

"  And  so  Theodore  is  going  to  be  married  next 
week?"  said  Oakley  after  a  long  and  awkward 
pause.  He  poured  himself  still  another  glass  of 
wine  and  his  hand  trembled,  letting  a  drop  fall  on 
the  polished  table.  His  three  months  in  Wash- 
ington had  told  on  him  in  more  ways  than  one. 
"  And  I  suppose  he  thinks  he  is  going  to  be  per- 
fectly happy,"  he  added  bitterly. 

Mr.  Harding  gave  his  companion  a  searching 
look.  Of  course  Oakley  and  Althea  were  not 
happy.  How  could  they  be,  with  Althea' s  ex- 
travagance and  impatience  of  control,  and  Oak- 
ley's continual  worry  and  dissatisfaction. 

So  many  unpleasant  thoughts  crowded  upon 
Mr.  Harding  that  he  sought  the  music  room  in- 
stead of  his  chamber.  A  puff  of  cool  air,  laden 
with  the  scent  of  pines,  met  him  as  he  opened  the 
door.  The  room  as  usual  rested  him  at  his  very 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

entrance.  It  was  but  dimly  lighted.  One  an- 
tique lamp  in  a  dull  gold  bracket  beside  the  organ 
shed  a  yellow  light  on  the  gleaming  keys.  The 
room  was  otherwise  in  twilight.  The  high 
arched  windows  were  open  wide,  and  low  in  their 
framing  twinkled  the  many  lights  of  the  valley. 

Albion  Harding  sank  restlessly  to  the  seat  be- 
fore the  organ  and  brought  forth  thunderous 
chords;  his  pent-up  unrest  sought  relief  in  a  tu- 
mult of  discordant  notes.  They  were  no  more 
discordant  than  his  life,  he  told  himself  with  cruel 
frankness, —  his  life  with  its  contrast  between 
profession  and  practice.  He  had  read  in  a 
marked  paper  that  morning  a  cruel  arraignment 
of  himself  and  his  methods,  which  specified  step 
by  step  the  means  by  which  the  American  had 
been  able  to  gain  its  ends.  Some  of  the  accusa- 
tions stung  him  with  their  truth,  some  with  their 
falsity;  but  at  the  end  came  a  few  bitter  words 
that  had  rung  in  his  ears  all  day : 

"  Does  he  think,  we  wonder,  that  ignorance  of 
the  means  by  which  his  ends  are  gained  frees  his 
poor,  equivocating  soul  from  its  burden  of 
crime?  " 

The  bitter  words  filled  his  thoughts  as  he 
wrenched  desultory  chord  and  cadence  from  the 
organ.  It  mattered  not  that  the  journal  was  a 
scurrilous  and  abusive  sheet ;  the  years  met  him  in 

319 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

arraignment.  Ordway's  worn  face  as  he  had 
seen  it  last,  Oakley's  reckless,  bitter  laugh,  the 
early  threads  of  grey  in  his  son's  hair,  his  wife's 
furtive,  searching  look  when  she  thought  him  ab- 
sorbed,—  all  these  confronted  him.  He  had  done 
these  things. 

And  what  was  he?  In  common  opinion  little 
better  than  a  murderer,  a  thief,  a  corrupter  of  the 
government  of  his  native  land.  How  had  this 
come  about?  He  thought  of  the  young  man, 
known  to  the  roistering  students  of  a  German 
university  as  "Lady  Harding."  He  had  been  true 
and  honorable.  When  had  the  change  begun? 
He  had  thought  himself  just  and  merciful  all 
these  years.  He  did  not  see,  even  in  this  moment 
of  self  revelation,  that  he  had  compromised  with 
his  conscience  here  and  there  for  years;  that  the 
need  for  ruthless  cunning,  for  remorseless  pur- 
suance of  his  end  at  any  cost,  had  never  before 
arisen  to  try  him. 

He  had  gradually  glided  from  clashing,  dis- 
connected chords  into  fragmentary  strains.  The 
eternal,  restless  striving  for  good  and  falling 
back  into  evil  cried  out  under  his  touch.  Life's 
fruitless  aspiration,  its  underlying  despair,  sobbed 
from  the  big  instrument.  And  still  the  self-com- 
muning went  on. 

Should  not  the  motive  count?  He  had  not 
320 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

done  it  for  himself  —  self  was  at  least  secondary. 
He  had  labored  for  an  idea,  for  a  theory,  for  the 
hope  of  renovating  the  industrial  world  by  the 
example  he  should  set.  Was  it  selfishness,  as 
selfishness  is  usually  counted,  to  wish  to  be  the 
leader  of  a  good  cause  ?  He  had  hoped  to  leave 
a  name  to  his  son  and  his  son's  sons  which  should 
stand  for  honor  and  probity,  and  a  tense  struggle 
against  heavy  odds,  for  the  success  of  a  theory. 
He  admitted  frankly  that  he  had  not  been  true  to 
his  ideals.  He  had  been  obliged  to  compromise, 
to  give  in  a  point  here  and  there  for  the  further- 
ance of  his  great  aim.  But  was  he  not,  on  the 
other  hand,  more  true  to  that  ideal  by  giving  in 
to  pressure  if  this  yielding  alone  made  realization 
possible  ?  Was  it  not,  after  all,  nobler  for  him  to 
have  given  up  a  point  here  and  there  of  his  highly 
prized  self-esteem?  Had  he  not  made  the  great- 
est sacrifice  possible  when  he  had  laid  upon  his 
conscience  a  blemish  ? 

The  music  was  doing  its  accustomed  work 
with  him.  Half  unconsciously  the  player  drew 
forth  strains  more  assured,  less  vibrant  with  loss 
and  shame,  pulsing  with  a  great  energy,  a  great 
victory.  The  cause  was  what  he  should  think 
of ;  the  end  was  to  be  desired,  of  that  he  was  sure. 
Combination  was  a  tendency,  a  force,  no  more  to 
be  thwarted  or  gainsaid  than  the  tides  or  the  cir- 
321 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

cuit  of  the  earth.     What  a  work  then  was  his 
who  should  pilot  it  aright! 

And  its  course  must  be  one  of  uprightness,  he 
thought  with  tightened  lips,  as  the  organ  notes 
swelled  forth  in  a  triumphal  march.  The  worst 
was  already  over;  victorious  in  the  tariff  fight, 
the  path  was  clear  ahead.  There  need  be  no 
measures  taken  against  Theodore.  He  thanked 
Heaven  that  that  deed  had  been  averted  in  time. 
There  had  been  other  blots  and  blemishes  in  the 
past,  he  told  himself  sadly,  though  not  so  many 
nor  so  wanton  as  popular  opinion  hinted.  He 
wondered  if  he  could  ever  clear  the  name  of  the 
company  from  the  stain  that  rested  upon  it,  if  he 
could  ever  stand  again  before  men  clear  from  the 
shadow  of  blame?  He  realized  that  the  world 
could  never  know  that  the  American  had  been 
forced  to  desperate  measures  for  its  bare  exist- 
ence. But  the  memory  of  men  is  short ;  he  would 
have  a  fortune  to  give  away  and  he  vowed  that  he 
would  not  spare  it  in  the  service  of  mankind. 
The  money  should,  at  least,  have  no  spot  upon  its 
spending.  He  thought,  with  a  glow  at  his  heart, 
of  a  little,  struggling  college  of  his  own  religious 
tenets  of  which  he  had  read  but  lately.  He  re- 
membered the  recital  of  the  work  they  were  doing 
against  almost  overwhelming  odds,  and  his  heart 
swelled  with  gratitude  for  the  assured  prosperity 
322 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

which  would  enable  him  to  double  or  treble  their 
efficiency.  That  would  be  a  fitting  thank-offer- 
ing for  his  escape  from  financial  ruin.  He  could 
proffer  this  aid  before  commencement.  He  could 
almost  see  the  newspaper  head-lines  which  should 
announce  his  gift,  could  almost  fancy  the  cheers 
of  the  students,  the  smiles  of  professors.  He  re- 
membered such  scenes  from  his  own  college  days. 
He  felt  that  he  must  do  this  thing  at  once  and 
hear  words  of  praise  associated  with  his  name. 

This  plan  soothed  him  until  his  mood  became 
singularly  softened.  He  felt  at  peace  with  all  the 
world.  He  could  even  admit  the  errors  of  his 
past,  the  sincerity  of  his  detractors.  The  music 
was  drawing  a  merciful  veil  over  the  doubtful 
passages  in  his  life.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his 
path  was  emerging,  at  last,  from  the  valleys  of 
perplexity,  and  a  dreary  compulsion,  upon  the 
hill  tops  of  peace. 

His  hands  glided  into  a  soft  adagio  of  Bee- 
thoven's which  had  always  reminded  him  of  a 
dim  pine  wood.  The  melody  swelled  and  sank 
again  like  wind  in  the  tree-tops,  broken  now  and 
then  by  the  soft  falling  ripple  of  a  bird's  cadence. 
Then  silence  would  come  for  a  second,  after  a 
lingering  chord,  followed  by  the  rush  of  the 
wind-like  melody  once  more.  The  abiding  peace 
of  the  pine  woods  fell  upon  Albion  Harding's 

323 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

spirit.  His  easily  moved,  emotional  nature  an- 
swered to  the  music,  the  music  responded  to  the 
emotion.  Life  was  so  simple  after  all.  To  do 
right  was  the  only  thing  —  and  to  do  right 
should  be  his  care ;  there  was  no  need  to  do  wrong 
any  more,  and  the  lost  peace  would  yet  come 
back. 

One  of  those  floods  of  emotion  which  seem  to 
stand  for  so  much  in  the  soul's  battle,  and  may 
after  all  mean  so  little  in  practical  results,  had 
hold  of  the  man.  The  old  peace  had  come  back ; 
that  for  the  moment  seemed  all  to  him.  He  for- 
got the  ruin  that  the  big  monopoly  had  left  in  its 
wake,  the  harm  to  all  the  lives  which  had  touched 
his;  or,  if  he  remembered  these  things,  it  was 
only  to  see  them  all  repaired  as  magically  as  the 
lost  good  had  come  back  to  him.  His  life  should 
be  one  long  service  of  reparation  for  the  wrong 
he  had  inadvertently  done, —  inadvertently,  he 
said  now. 

Upon  the  swells  and  diminuendos  of  the  music 
were  floating  vague  snatches  of  verse,  the  verse 
which  expresses  the  musician's  keen  ache  of  hap- 
piness as  no  other  has  ever  done.  They  rose  and 
fell  with  the  music,  little  more  than  glowing 
words.  As  the  last  soft  notes  throbbed  away 
into  silence,  Albion  Harding  murmured  in  a  voice 
that  trembled, 

324 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 


for  my  resting  place  is   found, 


.  The  C  Major  of  this  life,  and  now  I  will 

try  to  sleep." 

Quick  tears,  drawn  forth  by  a  genuine  desire 
for  better  things,  as  well  as  by  his  appreciation 
of  the  poetic  beauty  of  the  scene,  rushed  into  his 
eyes.  He  leaned  his  head  forward-  upon  his  arms. 
He  was  very  tired  and  at  peace.  Life  was  plain 
before  him  once  more,  a  life  of  reparation,  with- 
out the  giving  up  of  his  aim.  God  was  good  to 
him. 

Suddenly  a  tremendous  detonation  shook  the 
house,  rattling  the  windows  like  castanets,  and 
went  rolling  down  the  valley,  gaining  a  new  vol- 
ume from  each  succeeding  hill  and  at  last  dying 
away  slowly  into  a  dreadful  silence  of  horror  and 
amaze. 

Albion  Harding  sat  for  a  moment  half- 
stunned.  Then  he  was  at  the  window,  steadying 
himself  by  the  casing  with  one  hand,  and 
straining  his  eyes  out  over  the  valley.  All  was 
darkness  save  for  the  occasional  glow  of  a  street 
light.  Then,  after  a  breathless  pause,  the  thing 
which  he  feared  to  see,  came  to  pass.  At  the 
place  where  his  eyes  were  fastened,  a  slender, 
yellow  tongue  of  flame  rose  into  the  darkness  just 
where  he  had  seen  his  son's  chimneys  smoke 
morning  after  morning. 

325 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Two  thoughts  came  to  him  as  he  hurried  to  his 
wife's  room  —  to  reassure  her  and  to  see  for  him- 
self. He  found  her  at  a  south  window  gazing 
out  over  the  valley. 

"  It's  Theodore's  mill,"  she  said  calmly.  "  He 
is  killed !  "  Her  lips  were  stiff  and  white. 

Her  husband  put  his  arm  about  her.  "  Per- 
haps it  isn't  that  at  all.  And  you  told  me  he  was 
going  to  New  York,  didn't  you,  Evelyn?"  he 
said,  striving  for  calmness. 

"  He  said  so  today  —  yesterday."  There  was 
a  gleam  of  hope  in  her  eyes.  "  Go  quick  and 
see!" 

The  sound  of  shouts  came  faintly  up  from  the 
streets  below,  as  Oakley  and  Mr.  Harding  ran 
down  the  hill.  The  doleful  whine  of  the  fire- 
alarm  was  answered  by  the  brisk  clanging  of 
bells.  White  faces  appeared  at  half-lit  windows 
along  the  way.  Men  raced  along  the  street,  slip- 
ping on  their  coats  as  they  ran. 

The  dread  that  clutched  Mr.  Harding's  heart 
forbade  speech  and  merged  into  physical  pain. 
He  had  known  this  feeling  of  deathly  illness  more 
than  once  of  late.  His  heart  beat  convulsively, 
and  then  seemed  to  stand  still.  He  sank  on  the 
curb  beside  the  way. 

"  Go  on,  Marcus !  "  he  gasped,  "  I  can't  just 
now."  And  Oakley  with  one  careless  glance  ran 

326 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

on.  In  a  moment  the  stabbing  pain  lessened  and 
left  Mr.  Harding  strangely  weak.  He  was  say- 
ing helplessly  to  himself,  "  He  wouldn't  do  it  un- 
less he  was  away, —  unless  he  knew  Theodore 
was  away." 

He  sat  weakly  in  the  shadow,  watching  the 
men  of  Underhill  run  past.  At  length  he  gained 
sufficient  strength  to  go  on  and  followed  the  hur- 
rying procession  wearily. 

As  he  turned  the  sharp  corner  the  scene  of  de- 
struction met  his  eyes.  The  mill  had  stood  apart 
from  other  buildings  on  the  bank  of  the  river. 
The  explosion  seemed  to  have  driven  the  wreck- 
age into  two  piles,  one  of  which  was  flaming  up 
grandly.  Upon  the  other  which  had  not  yet 
caught  fire,  the  engines  were  playing  jets  of 
water  which  took  rainbow  color?  in  the  light  of 
the  flames.  The  river  stretched  a  broad  band  of 
flame-color.  Beyond  in  the  firelight,  the  win- 
dows in  the  long  tenements  showed  shivered  into 
fragments.  Here  and  there,  too,  an  adjacent 
wall  was  crushed  by  the  force  of  the  explosion. 
The  crowd,  distinct  in  the  firelight,  pressed  as 
close  to  the  ruins  as  the  cordon  of  police  would 
permit. 

"Where's  Theodore?"  the  father's  breathless 
voice  questioned  indiscriminately  into  the  crowd. 
327 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"Has  any  one  seen  anything  of  my  son?  He 
slept  in  the  mill." 

The  crowd  was  not  over-tolerant  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  it  knew  to  a  man  that  Theodore  slept  in  the 
mill.  It  had  its  own  bitter  anxiety.  A  grim 
rumor  was  already  whispered  about  from  mouth 
to  mouth  —  a  rumor  founded  on  nothing  more 
than  popular  sympathy  for  the  young  man,  dis- 
trust of  the  older  one,  and  a  dislike  for  the  order 
of  things  which  he  represented. 

"  What  in do  you  suppose  we  know  about 

it  ?  "  a  rough  voice  answered.  "  You  are  a  pretty 
one  to  be  askin'  where  your  own  son  is !  You're 
the  one  that's  got  something  to  gain  by  having 
him  out  of  the  way."  . 

Mr.  Harding  winced  at  these  words  as  if  he 
had  been  struck.  Anxiety  regarding  his  son  had 
for  the  moment  obliterated  the  thought  of  his 
own  position. 

He  pressed  forward  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd. 

"For  God's  sake,  do  something!"  he  cried  in 
a  choking  voice. 

"  We're  doing  all  we  can,  sir,"  a  fireman  an- 
swered respectfully.  "  We  can't  get  any  nearer 
until  the  fire's  out.  Besides,  if  he's  under 
there  —  " 

Mr.  Harding  noticed  with  strange  minuteness 
328 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

that  the  fresh  leaves  of  the  elms  and  maples 
showed  pink  in  the  light  of  the  flames. 

He  went  back  and  forth  amid  the  crowd  ques- 
tioning breathlessly  everywhere,  but  he  got  no 
trace.  Dave,  the  setter,  was  running  about  with 
drooping  plumy  tail,  and  nose  to  the  ground. 
Now  and  then  he  snuffed  at  some  friendly  hand 
extended  to  him,  and  whined  piteously;  but  he 
would  not  stay  his  terror-stricken  circuit. 

Suddenly  a  hoarse  voice,  broken  with  emotion, 
shouted  aloud  into  the  silence,  "  He's  all  right. 
He  went  to  New  York  this  afternoon.  Three 
cheers,  men,  and  a  tiger !  " 

The  cheers  rolled  lustily  up  into  the  June  night 
with  an  electric  quality  of  love  and  relief  in  their 
rough  burden. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Teddy?"  queried  a 
voice  lightly,  and  the  chorus  droned  back  in  long 
response, 

"He's  all  right!" 

But  the  glossy  dog  still  ran  about  uneasily 
through  the  crowd,  trembling  and  whining.  He 
could  not  understand  the  good  news.  Only  the 
sight  of  his  master  would  satisfy  him. 


329 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

The  crowd  still  lingered  and  Mr.  Harding 
stayed  with  it.  Some  morbid  fascination  held 
him  near  the  scene  of  his  son's  ruin.  It  seemed 
easier  to  send  a  messenger  to  his  wife  with  word 
of  Theodore's  safety,  than  to  meet  at  once  her 
questions  and  speculations.  So  he  stood  with  his 
arm  through  the  low-growing  branch  of  a  young 
maple,  still  feeling  weak  and  shaken. 

As  the  crowd  slowly  dispersed,  it  discussed 
probable  causes  for  the  accident.  Mr.  Harding 
caught  a  word  here  and  there,  and  heard  more 
than  once  the  name  of  the  American.  He  wanted 
to  proclaim  aloud  to'  these  people  that  he  was  in- 
nocent. But  no  one  spoke  to  him.  One  and  all, 
seeing  him,  averted  their  eyes  quickly.  They 
knew  that  accident  seemed  hardly  probable, 
here.  A  bursting  boiler,  they  had  argued,  could 
not  have  created  such  havoc  as  this  even  had  it 
been  likely  to  occur;  it  was  well-known  that  no 

330 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

quantity  of  chemicals  was  ever  kept  in  the  mill. 
Moreover,  the  night-watchman  had  been  borne 
away  to  the  hospital  declaring  that  all  was  as  it 
should  be.  The  fact  was  evident,  also,  that  the 
American  was  the  only  gainer  by  the  disaster. 

Albion  Harding,  standing  alone,  saw  Reid  ap- 
proaching and  beckoned  to  him.  He  had  never 
failed  to  find  Reid  sympathetic.  The  latter  ap- 
proached slowly  with  the  dog  at  his  heels.  The 
troubled  creature  seemed  to  find  comfort  in  Reid's 
presence. 

Mr.  Harding  held  out  his  slender  hand,  and 
snapped  his  fingers.  He  did  not  like  dogs. 

"  Good  fellow !  Come  here !  "  he  said  con- 
descendingly. But  Dave,  completely  unnerved, 
forgot  his  manners  for  a  moment  and  showed  his 
teeth  in  an  ugly  snarl. 

"  I'd  take  him  home  with  me,  but  you  see  he 
won't  come,"  Mr.  Harding  said  helplessly.  "  You 
will  have  to  take  him  with  you."  But  the  dog 
was  off  like  a  flash  again,  with  his  nose  to  the 
ground,  yelping  softly  now  and  then  with  ex- 
citement. 

"  What  were  Theodore's  plans?  "  Mr.  Hard- 
ing asked  in  a  voice  which  he  tried  hard  to  con- 
trol. There  was  something  painfully  pathetic  to 
him  in  the  dumb  beast's  grief  over  his  master's 
misfortune. 

331 


THE  WARS  OF.  PEACE 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  He  told  me  a  day 
or  two  ago  that  he  was  going  to  New  York  yes- 
terday afternoon.  Several  people  saw  him  on  his 
way  to  the  station  —  so  there's  no  doubt  he  has 
gone." 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  only  he  ought 
to  be  notified." 

"  Murray  —  his  foreman  —  and  I  telegraphed 

him  at  the  .  He  always  goes  there,  you 

know.  That's  all  there  is  to  do.  Poor  Teddy !  " 

"  I  hope  he  will  let  me  help  him.  Surely  there 
is  no  reason  why  he  should  refuse  my  aid  and 
sympathy  at  a  time  like  this  ? "  Mr.  Harding 
spoke  in  a  questioning  tone  and  with  a  wistful 
note  in  his  voice. 

"  No  reason  but  —  Mr.  Harding,  if  you  don't 
know  what  people  are  saying  you  ought  to.  They 
say  that  the  American  is  the  only  gainer  by 
Teddy's  misfortune."  Reid  spoke  abruptly. 

"  I  shall  not  say  that  I  think  the  accusation  — 
the  implication,  unworthy  of  an  answer,"  said 
Mr.  Harding  slowly.  "  Such  an  arraignment  as 
that  must  be  answered.  Thank  God,  I  can  af- 
firm upon  my  honor  as  a  gentleman  that  I  know 
nothing  of  this  lamentable  business." 

The  self-vindication  failed  in  some  indefinable 
way  of  the  simple  dignity  at  which  it  aimed. 
Reid  remained  unconvinced.  He  spoke  coldly. 
332 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

The  haggard  face,  old  and  ill  in  the  flickering 
fire-light,  did  not  rouse  his  pity. 

"  Could  it  not  have  been  done  without  your 
knowledge  ? "  he  asked  slowly.  He  knew  too 
much  of  Mr.  Harding's  methods  of  shirking  de- 
tail and  shifting  responsibility  to  feel  sure  that 
this  personal  disclaimer  freed  the  American. 

"  I  see  you  disbelieve  my  statement  that  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  matter;  I  can  hardly  con- 
vince you  against  your  will.  But  it  is  a  grievous 
disappointment  to  me  to  have  you  take  a  stand 
with  my  detractors."  Mr.  Harding's  tones  were 
full  of  an  injured  dignity. 

"  You  mistake  me,  Mr.  Harding.  I  trust  your 
word  implicitly,  but  I  still  maintain  that  it  is  pos- 
sible for  this  to  have  happened  through  the  agen- 
cy of  the  American  without  your  knowledge." 

Reid  would  have  said  a  few  words  in  self- 
justification,  but  at  this  moment  he  saw  Burnham 
approaching,  and  moved  away.  He  cared  little 
after  all  whether  Mr.  Harding  understood  him 
or  not.  He  circled  off  through  the  crowd  in 
search  of  the  dog. 

Mr.  Harding  and  his  agent  met  rather  con- 
strainedly. Burnham  was  fighting  back  his  joy 
into  a  semblance  of  decent  pity  and  concern. 
The  matter  had  gone  off  better  than  he  had  dared 
hope.  He  had  hardly  slept,  it  seemed  to  him  for 
333 


weeks,  for  wondering  what  his  hints  to  Rubino- 
vitch  would  accomplish.  He  had  trembled  for 
fear  that  the  man's  disordered  brain  should  mis- 
lead him,  and  Theodore  should  suffer.  He  had 
faced  the  fact  that  the  theorist  might  get  no  far- 
ther than  theories;  now  all  had  happened  just  as 
he  had  planned  in  his  most  hopeful  moments. 
The  head  of  the  opposition  was  crushed  without 
personal  danger  to  Theodore  Harding.  He  him- 
self was  not  implicated  in  the  slightest  degree. 
Even  if  Rubinovitch  should  by  any  unlucky 
chance  be  detected  in  the  deed,  no  shadow  of 
blame  could  be  laid  on  him  or  the  American. 
So  he  met  Mr.  Harding  with  a  heart  inwardly 
leaping  with  exultation. 

"  This  will  be  a  bad  matter  for  your  son, 
Harding;  but  after  all  I  suppose  a  little  adver- 
sity won't  hurt  him  in  the  end,  and  it's  an  ill  wind 
that  blows  nobody  good." 

"  I  disagree  with  you  there.  It's  a  very  un- 
fortunate thing  for  us,  in  my  opinion,  that  this 
should  have  happened.  Oakley  is  back  from 
Washington  and  he  assures  me  that  matters  there 
are  perfectly  safe.  My  son's  competition  would 
hardly  have  counted  at  all  under  those  circum- 
stances." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  "  Burnham  queried 
sharply. 

'334 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  did  not  know  myself  until  tonight  —  last 
night" 

"  Well,  matters  are  so  much  easier  for  the 
American,  anyway,"  said  Burnham  complacently. 

"  And  the  whole  country  will  say  that  it  did 
this,"  Mr.  Harding  retorted. 

"  D — n  the  whole  country !  They  can't  prove 
anything." 

"  Of  course  not,  but  the  suspicion  is  galling. 
I  wish  we  had  Reid  and  the  '  Criterion  '  with 
us.  He  used  to  be  heartily  in  favor  of  trusts,  but 
he  has  changed.  The  support  of  our  home  pa- 
pers seems  to  me  very  important.  Fletcher  is 
with  us  on  principle,  but  Reid  — " 

"  I'm  inclined  to  think  a  pretty  lump  of  Amer- 
icans account  for  Fletcher's  stand  better  than 
principle,  but  you  know  best.  I  imagine  Reid 
could  be  secured  in  the  same  way;  and,  by  the 
way,  you  advanced  him  money  when  he  bought 
out  McLeod,  didn't  you?" 

:<  Yes,"  Mr.  Harding  answered  slowly. 

'  Then  it's  easy  enough.  Of  course  he'll  help 
us  out,"  Burnham  commented  in  satisfied  tones. 

"  Will  you  see  him,  then  ?  "  Albion  Harding 
asked. 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  flamed  Burnham.  "  I'm  sick 
of  doing  all  your  dirty  work  and  having  you  tell 
me  it  ain't  necessary  after  it's  all  done.  I  don't 
335 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

care  a  d — n  about  Reid  and  his  little  two-penny 
paper.  If  you  do  you  can  see  him,  that's  all." 

It  piqued  Burnham  that  his  labor  in  this  mat- 
ter had  been  called  unnecessary.  He  had,  more- 
over, been  proud  of  his  part  in  the  business.  He 
had  taken  a  leaf  from  Mr.  Harding's  book  and 
made  another  man  his  tool,  for  once  rivalling  his 
master  in  subtlety.  He  was  childishly  elated  over 
his  skill,  and  could  not  bear  that  Mr.  Harding, 
whose  superiority  he  had  always  felt  with  irrita^ 
tion,  should  be  ignorant  of  his  strategy. 

Mr.    Harding   disregarded   the   outburst. 

"  Reid  represents  the  best  feeling  in  this  part 
of  the  state.  That  is  surely  worth  taking  into 
account,"  he  said.  "  But  never  mind ;  he  will 
have  to  take  his  course.  It  would  do  no  good 
to  try  to  influence  him." 

Burnham  was  not  to  be  placated,  however. 

"  You  can  do  just  as  you  see  fit  about  that ; 
but  there's  one  thing  sure;  I'm  goin'  to  give  my 
report.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  to  bear  all  the  re- 
sponsibility for  this  business.  I've  been  workin' 
as  your  agent." 

"  What  business  do  you  mean  ?  You  express- 
ly stated  that  the  American  wasn't  responsible  for 
this  disaster."  Mr.  Harding  questioned  coldly. 

"  You're  mistaken  there.  I  said  nothing  could 
be  proved  against  it,  that's  true  enough;  but 

336 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Albion  Harding,  you  can't 
shift  all  the  blame.  You  have  done  the  thing 
just  as  much  as  I  have  done  it,  and  I  have  done 
it  just  as  much  as  the  man  who  put  the  dynamite 
in  the  mill  basement." 

Albion  Harding  put  up  his  hand  with  a  quick 
gesture. 

"  For  God's  sake,  man,  don't  shout  so !  I 
don't  want  to  hear  your  surmises !  " 

Burnham  lowered  his  voice,  but  spoke  on  in- 
flexibly. Neither  man  had  seen  Francis  Reid  ap- 
proaching ;  neither  saw  him  turn  away  in  a  dazed 
fashion. 

Sick  at  heart  the  young  man  threaded  his  way 
through  the  dispersing  crowd.  The  man  upon 
whose  probity  he  would  have  staked  so  much 
a  year  ago,  was  a  villain  and  a  coward  at  heart. 
Reid  had  not  heard  any  of  the  details,  he  could 
fill  those  in  easily  enough  from  what  he  knew 
of  the  dealings  of  the  American.  He  knew  that 
Albion  Harding  had  done  this  deed  against  his 
own  son. 

As  he  was  wearily  struggling  with  this  hor- 
ror, he  saw  the  dog  nosing  the  ground  nervously 
before  him.  The  big  fellow  looked  up  at  his 
master's  friend  with  eyes  that  seemed  at  once 
to  ask  and  tell  something.  There  was  eager- 
ness and  anxiety  in  every  line  of  the  sleek  figure. 

337 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Now  and  then  a  tremor  would  pass  over  his  body 
and  he  would  crouch  with  hunted  eyes.  Reid 
tried  to  call  and  even  to  drag  him  away  from 
the  scene  of  the  accident,  but  the  eager,  welcom- 
ing light  faded  from  the  creature's  face,  and  the 
whine  changed  to  an  angry  snarl. 

Daylight  was  already  beginning  to  scatter  the 
darkness.  Through  the  gap  left  by  the  ruined 
mill  Reid  could  see  a  light  beginning  to  glow 
faintly  in  the  East.  Birds  stirred  with  muffled 
chirps.  He  looked  back  upon  the  scene  of  the 
wreck  of  boyish,  ambitious  hopes.  Two  heaps 
of  debris,  side  by  side,  one  still  glowing  faintly, 
the  other  piled  high  and  jagged,  alone  were  left 
of  the  prosperous  life  of  the  day  before.  The 
crowd  had  melted  away,  a  dusky  figure  stood 
motionless,  guarding  the  ruin.  Between  the  fire 
and  the  growing  daylight,  ran  the  anxious  dog. 
The  whole  scene  was  strange,  unreal,  to  Reid, 
with  all  that  it  implied  of  cruel  power  over  sim- 
ple right,  as  lurid  as  some  cheap  melodrama. 

Reid  turned  and  walked  heavily  down  the 
street  with  his  soul  in  arms  against  the  cruelty 
of  the  world.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 
never  believe  again  in  any  power  stronger  than 
mere  brute  force.  He  felt  suddenly  old  and  tired 
of  life.  His  feet  echoed  loudly  on  the  pavements, 
338 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

and  he  shuddered  as  he  heard  behind  him  the 
dog's  long-drawn,  desperate  howl. 

The  watchman  dozed  on  the  steps  of  a  near-by 
house  as  the  sun  came  up  into  a  crimson  sky, 
touched  the  ruins  for  a  moment,  and  then  disap- 
peared into  a  cloud.  A  few  drops  of  rain 
fell.  The  life  of  the  city  awoke,  little  by  little. 
Country  people  with  market  teams  came  and 
gazed  on  the  ruins,  spoke  together  in  low  voices 
and  drove  away.  Another  day  of  commonplace 
labor  dawned  for  every  other  business  man  in 
Underhill  save  Theodore  Harding.  And  still 
the  dog  kept  guard;  in  the  crash  and  glare  of 
light  his  world  had  been  swallowed  up.  He  was 
searching  with  moist  nose  and  eager  whines  for 
the  print  of  the  feet  which  he  had  followed  faith- 
fully all  his  days.  Perhaps  he  was  revolving  in 
his  sensitive  mind  what  might  be  his  own  re- 
sponsibility. What  had  been  the  meaning  of  the 
dark  figure  clambering  in  through  the  basement 
window?  What  the  mission  of  the  heavy  drag- 
ging feet  which  he  had  followed  suspiciously 
down  the  street  ?  Perhaps  he  thought,  as  did  no 
one  else,  that  his  master  was  not  so  far  but  that 
a  mournful,  long-drawn  call  might  reach  him. 


339 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Reid  was  at  the  station  to  meet  Faith  on  her 
return  next  morning.  He  had  hoped  that  he 
might  be  the  first  to  tell  her  of  the  accident,  that 
he  might  be  able  to  spare  her  garbled  accounts 
and  speculations  as  to  causes;  but  everyone  had 
been  talking  of  it  on  the  train,  and  Reid  knew, 
at  his  first  glimpse  of  her  white  face  and  com- 
pressed lips,  that  she  had  heard.  Her  first  words 
were, 

."  You've  telegraphed  to  Theodore  ?  Have  you 
got  any  answer  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  he  answered,  trying  to  make  his 
tones  matter-of-fact.  He  felt  as  he  spoke  that 
his  lips  smiled  stiffly.  He  had  been  oppressed 
with  a  dread  that  had  not  amounted  to  definite 
foreboding  until  he  had  learned  a  moment  before 
that  none  of  the  station  employees  had  seen  Hard- 
ing board  the  train  the  afternoon  before. 

"  He  always  uses  a  trip-book,  so  he  wouldn't 
340 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

buy  a  ticket  anyway.  We  might  not  have  seen 
him.  I  tell  you,  Godkin  will  be  down  in  half 
an  hour.  He  can  tell  you  whether  Harding  went 
up  with  him  or  not,"  the  station  master  had  said. 

"  It  seems  so  strange  you  haven't  heard," 
Faith  had  continued.  "  He  would  surely  answer, 
wouldn't  he?  " 

"  I  told  him  to,  but  he  might  not  realize  that 
we  would  be  anxious." 

"  You  directed  to  the ?  " 

"  Yes.  Oh,  he's  all  right,  Faith.  He  told  Mrs. 
Harding  at  noon  that  he  was  going  on  the  four- 
thirty,  and  any  number  of  people  saw  him  on  the 
way  to  the  station  with  his  bag.  It's  only  be- 
cause we  are  shaken  up  any  way  that  we  worry." 

"  He  might  have  been  detained  somewhere  by 
the  way." 

"  Lots  of  things  might  have  happened.  He 
might  have  gone  to  some  other  hotel.  There! 
it's  a  pretty  dismal  sight,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  isn't  it  dreadful!"  said  Faith,  breath- 
lessly. 

The  scene  was  even  more  dreary  than  it  had 
been  the  night  before.  As  they  approached  si- 
lently a  dog's  long,  doleful  howl  pierced  the  air. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  get  Dave  away.  I  was  one 
of  the  first  people  to  get  here,  and  he  was  racing 
34i 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

about  then  and  has  been  ever  since.     He's  all 
broken  up;  I  can't  do  anything  with  him." 

"  He  is  looking  for  Theodore,"  Faith  said,  as 
the  dog  resumed  his  apathetic  search.  "  But, 
Frank,  you  said  he  was  here  —  when  you  got 
here !  "  She  grasped  his  arm.  Her  face  was 
colorless  to  her  lips  and  her  eyes  wide.  "  Oh, 
Frank,  he  didn't  go  then, —  Theodore  didn't  go ! 
I  know  he  didn't  —  he  always  left  Dave  with  us, 
—  and  mother  shut  him  in  the  shed." 

In  a  moment  she  had  dropped  Reid's  arm,  and 
was  hurrying  over  the  strewn  timbers  and  heaped 
up  brick-work  with  the  dog  beside  her.  He 
seemed  to  recognize  her  nearness  to  his  master, 
to  feel  that  now  this  tangle  would  be  set  straight. 
Once  when  she  fell  upon  the  debris,  hurting  her- 
self cruelly,  the  dog  waited  whining  beside  her. 
As  if  a  common  instinct  of  love  were  leading 
them  they  directed  their  steps  to  the  spot  where 
the  timbers  were  heaped  highest,  hardly 
touched  by  the  flames.  Reid,  who  after  his  mo- 
ment of  bewilderment,  had  followed  her,  heard 
her  calling,  "  Theodore !  Theodore !  "  unmind- 
ful of  the  little  crowd  that  had  gathered  about 
the  scene  of  last  ^night's  disaster.  Finally  the 
girl  knelt  upon  the  pile,  spent  and  unable  to  go 
further.  The  dog  crouched  by  her  side,  thrust- 
ing his  nose  into  her  face. 
342 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"Theodore!"  she  called  brokenly,  "Theo- 
dore! Are  you  there?"  She  fondled  the  dog 
unwittingly  as  she  spoke.  "  Dear,  can't  you  tell 
me?  Answer  me!" 

The  choked,  pleading  voice  compelled  an  an- 
swer. As  Reid  came  up  and  threw  himself  by 
her  side,  they  caught  the  faint,  gasping  words, 

"Yes,   Faith,  I'm  all  right!      But  — have  - 
them  —  hurry." 

For  one  instant  Faith  lay  with  her  cheek  to 
the  rough  bricks. 

Reid  had  already  risen  to  his  feet  and  was 
shouting, 

"  For  God's  sake,  get  men !  Harding's  in 
there !  "  and  was  himself  tearing  ineffectually  at 
the  timbers. 

Then  Faith  rose  to  her  feet  and  began  her  al- 
most hopeless  struggle  for  her  lover's  life  —  a 
struggle  that  lasted  for  months. 

"  Get  doctors !  "  she  called  in  firm  tones.  "And 
blankets  and  a  stretcher.  Somebody  go  for  Mrs. 
Harding!  And  somebody  go  to  Mrs.  Ordway's 
and  tell  her  to  get  a  room  ready !  " 

Then  she  knelt  a  moment  to  call, 

"  Only  wait  a  moment,  Theodore,  dear,  we'll 
get  you  out !  " 

The    faint   voice   tried   to   answer,    "  It's    all 

"  then  trailed  off  into  silence.     Faith  and 

343 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Reid  tore  desperately  at  bricks  and  beams,  aided 
by  the  few  onlookers  who  had  not  scattered  on 
the  girl's  imperious  behests.  But  they  kept  at 
their  work  only  for  a  moment.  From  all  the 
near-by  streets  and  alleys  came  the  men  from 
Theodore's  mill.  At  leisure  that  day,  they  had 
been  the  first  to  hear  the  summons  for  aid.  Boys 
and  old  men,  strong  men  and  women  came  run- 
ning from  every  direction  out  of  the  white,  cold 
fog  that  had  settled  down  on  the  town  and  river. 
The  faces  were  grey  and  worn  with  care,  con- 
vulsed with  grief,  cold  and  set  with  wrath.  Some 
of  the  men  were  even  weeping,  the  tears  run- 
ning unheeded  over  their  cheeks  as  they  streamed 
out  across  the  ruins. 

Faith  stood  quietly  aside.  She  knew  that  she 
was  of  no  use  there,  and  yet  inactivity  was  un- 
bearable and  she  feared  that  she  might  lose  some 
last  word.  She  stood  with  her  hands  clenched, 
biting  her  lips  until  they  bled,  and  saying  over 
and  over  to  herself,  "  Why  are  they  so  slow ! 
Oh,  why  are  they  so  slow !  " 

She  could  not  have  told  whether  it  was  minutes 
or  hours  before  Mr.  Harding's  black  horses  came 
galloping  out  of  the  fog,  drawing  the  swaying 
carriage.  In  it  sat  Mrs.  Harding  alone.  Faith 
ran  forward  and  had  her  hand  on  the  door  be- 
fore the  carriage  had  stopped. 
344 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Is  he  alive  ?  "  gasped  Mrs.  Harding. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Faith  answered.  "  He  said,  '  I'm 
all  right,  but  have  them  hurry.' ' 

"Then  he  isn't  hurt?" 

"  Oh,  he  must  be,  but  perhaps  it  isn't  very 
bad." 

More  and  more  people  came  hurrying  in  from 
the  by  streets.  Reid  saw  from  his  position,  a  lit- 
tle to  one  side  where  he  could  direct  the  changing 
shifts,  that  the  employees  of  Mr.  Harding's  mill 
were  there  in  a  body.  Their  anxious  foreman 
followed  them. 

"  Say,  but  I  couldn't  make  'em  stay.  The 
minute  the  word  got  around  in  the  mill  they 
struck  work  and  they're  hot  as  pepper  against  the 
old  man." 

Reid  had  the  rescue  work  well  under  his  con- 
trol. He  had  divided  the  men  into  five-minute 
shifts,  and  these  changed  silently  and  swiftly  at 
his  call.  The  men  worked  like  tigers,  regardless 
of  themselves  in  their  eagerness  to  help,  each  re- 
membering some  kind  or  thoughtful  deed  of 
Theodore's.  Around  stood  a  ring  of  women, 
slatternly  and  dishevelled  in  their  limp  calicoes, 
but  with  hearts  warm  and  tender  for  the  man 
who  had  so  often  stood  their  friend.  Gradually 
the  hill  people  came  too,  and  stood  with  the  val- 
ley folk  and  talked  with  them  and  the  young 

345 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

business  men  worked  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
the  factory  hands  in  the  changing  shifts.  Here 
and  there,  the  pitying,  anxious  eyes  of  the  crowd 
were  turned  from  the  men  working  with  clenched 
teeth  and  laboring  breath  to  the  carriage  where 
the  girl  with  the  crumpled  and  stained  wrhite 
waist,  with  the  broad  band  of  black  from  the 
charred  timbers  emphasizing  the  pallor  of  her 
face,  was  supporting  the  shrinking,  daintily-clad 
woman. 

Faith's  very  lips  were  pale,  her  eyes  were  wide 
with  fright;  yet  there  was ;  something  undaunted 
about  her  rigid  face.  She  had  somehow  grasped 
life  directly  and  surely  as  the  other  woman  had 
not,  in  more  than  twice  her  years.  It  had  wound- 
ed the  girl,  perhaps,  as  sorely  as  it  had  the  wom- 
an, and  yet  she  faced  it  unconquered. 

The  relays  were  changing  when  she  leaped 
from  the  carriage  and  picked  her  way  swiftly 
through  the  wreckage. 

"Theodore!  Theodore!"  she  called.  "Can 
you  hear  me,  dear?  Only  a  few  minutes  more! 
They  are  almost  down  to  you." 

Her  ear  alone  caught  the  faint  answer,  but  she 
hurried  back  with  it  to  the  almost  fainting  moth- 
er, who  was  murmuring  mechanically, 

"  Where  can  Mr.  Harding  be?  Why  don't 
346 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

they  send  again  for  Mr.  Harding?  He  would 
know  what  to  do,  I'm  sure." 

Faith's  face  grew  hard  and  she  did  not  an- 
swer. 

Shift  gave  place  to  shift.  Minutes  passed  like 
hours.  A  slow,  dreary  rain  began  to  fall.  Reid 
realized  suddenly  that  he  still  had  Faith's  coat, 
which  he  had  mechanically  laid  down,  picked 
up  and  carried  since  he  took  it  from  her  at  the 
station.  He  ran  to  the  side  of  the  carriage  and 
threw  it  over  her  unprotected  shoulders. 

"  How  much  longer?  "  she  questioned. 

"  Only  a  few  minutes,  now,  Faith,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  Has  he  spoken  again?  " 

"  No,  I  think  he  is  unconscious.  I  hope  so. 
It  is  much  easier  for  him." 

He  was  glad  that  Faith  made  no  movement  to 
speak  to  Theodore  again.  He  had  leaned  over 
himself,  but  a  moment  before,  and  the  sight  of 
the  cruel  beam  that  was  crushing  the  life  out  of 
the  slender  figure  beneath  turned  him  sick  and 
faint.  The  face  was  ghastly  white,  the  bluish, 
blood-flecked  lips  were  drawn  back  slightly  away 
from  the  clenched  teeth.  The  eyes  showed  vio- 
let-black through  the  closed  lids.  No  breath 
seemed  to  stir  the  soft  beard.  Reid  had  no 
347 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

doubt  that  the  gentlest,  truest  man  on  earth,  as 
he  found  himself  calling  his  friend,  was  dead. 

Tender  hands  at  length  released  the  ends  of  the 
timber  which  had  pinned  down  the  helpless  fig- 
ure. The  heavy  beam  had  been  more  kind  than 
cruel,  after  all,  for  it  had  undoubtedly  supported 
a  weight  that  would  have  crushed  out  Theodore's 
life  at  once.  Two  men  of  his  own  mill,  with 
whom  he  had  worked  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  his 
'prentice  days,  leaned  over  with  tears  running 
down  their  cheeks  and  lifted  him. 

As  Faith  chafed  the  limp  hand,  Dr.  Rice  rose 
from  beside  the  litter  and  looked  across  the  kneel- 
ing girl  with  pitiful  eyes  which  told  Reid  of  his 
utter  lack  of  hope. 

"  We'd  better  take  him  home  at  oiice,"  he  said 
huskily. 

"  He  is  coming  to  our  house,"  said  Faith,  hur- 
riedly. "  It  is  nearer,  and  mother  has  a  room 
ready  for  him." 

"  His  own  home  is  the  place  for  him.  It  is 
quieter  on  the  hill,"  Mrs.  Harding  protested. 

"  Home  ?  How  much  has  it  been  home  to  him 
lately  ?  How  much  can  it  be  after  this  ?  Would 
he  want  to  go  there?  "  Faith  flamed  out  passion- 
ately. She  felt  that  she  could  never  have  him 
go  there  to  his  father's  house,  that  she  could 
never  go  with  him. 

348 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Dr.  Rice  settled  the  question. 

"  The  nearer  place  is  the  better.  Take  him 
to  Mrs.  Ordway's,"  he  said  autocratically. 

Four  of  Theodore's  most  trusted  mill-hands 
carefully  raised  the  litter.  Then  they  set  off  down 
the  street  in  silence,  the  doctor  walking  watch- 
fully beside  with  his  hand  on  the  fluttering  pulse. 
Mrs.  Harding's  carriage  followed  slowly.  Once 
Faith  looked  back  and  saw  with  a  shudder  that 
some  of  the  workmen  had  fallen  in  behind. 

As  the  procession  passed  Falmouth  Street,  Mr. 
Harding  came  to  the  corner.  His  step  was 
lighter  than  it  had  been  for  weeks,  his  brow  less 
furrowed.  He  stood  there,  gazing  at  the  strange 
procession  which  barred  his  way.  Any  hint  of 
the  long  suspense  of  the  town  had  somehow 
failed  to  reach  him,  as  it  occasionally  does  the 
person  most  concerned.  The  meaning  of  this 
quiet,  grief-stricken  concourse  puzzled  him. 
Then  in  a  flash  he  recognized  his  horses,  his  wife, 
and  Faith.  The  girl's  eyes,  dark  and  frightened, 
rested  upon  him  in  a  gaze,  warning,  accusing, 
horror-stricken, —  the  gaze  of  his  own  conscience. 
Then  they  were  averted  while  a  sudden  contrac- 
tion passed  over  the  stern  young  face. 

Then  Mr.  Harding  knew  that  he  was  not  sur- 
prised, that  this  was  the  thing  which  he  had 
dreaded  in  the  midst  of  his  relief.  He  had  been 
349 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

waiting  for  this,  with  a  catch  in  his  breath  at  the 
thought.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  mental  anguish 
merged  itself  into  physical.  The  stab  of  the 
realization  of  the  worst,  pierced  him  with  the  old 
sickening  pang.  It  had  never  lasted  so  long  be- 
fore. He  thought,  with  a  throb  of  something 
like  relief,  that  the  last  time  had  come.  He 
leaned  heavily  against  the  wall.  The  world 
might  be  more  lenient  in  its  judgment  of  the  dead 
than  the  living.  Then  the  anguish  passed.  A 
reprieve  had  been  given  him  —  the  murderer. 

Albion  Harding  sat  alone  all  that  afternoon  in 
his  office.  It  rained  without,  a  warm  June  rain 
that  came  in  heavy  showers  and  sent  foot-farers 
into  convenient  doorways.  He  watched  the  shin- 
ing drops  stream  down  over  the  pane.  The 
weakness  which  always  followed  one  of  the  at- 
tacks of  pain  held  him  benumbed.  The  exertion 
which  had  carried  him  to  Mrs.  Ordway's,  at  the 
rear  of  the  procession,  had  almost  exhausted  him. 
The  air  of  hushed  excitement  there  had  well- 
nigh  overcome  him,  and  he  had  come  back  to  a 
spot  where  he  could  be  still.  In  his  weakness, 
the  years  o>f  misunderstanding  and  disappoint- 
ment had  slipped  away  somehow,  and  he  was 
thinking  of  his  son  as  a  little  boy  —  sturdy, 
black-eyed,  tuneful,  with  his  childish  grasp  of 
business  and  his  friendliness  with  the  men.  Al- 
350 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

bion  Harding  had  always  loved  his  son,  and  his 
heart  ached  with  pain  and  fear. 

At  length  night  followed  the  interminable 
afternoon,  and  the  harassed  man,  unmindful  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  not  eaten  since  morning, 
paced  up  and  down  in  front  of  Mrs.  Ordway's 
house.  A  carriage  drew  up  silently  before  the 
door,  and  he  saw  the  great  New  York  surgeon, 
whose  moments  were  golden,  mount  the  steps 
rapidly.  Dr.  Rice  met  him  at  the  door,  and  the 
watcher  across  the  street  could  see  them  talking 
earnestly  in  the  hall.  Figures  passed  and  re- 
passed  on  the  lighted  curtain  of  the  corner  room 
above  the  street.  The  faint,  nauseating  odor  of 
chloroform  floated  out.  Mr.  Harding  was  af- 
fected by  sickness  and  suffering  more  deeply  than 
most  men,  and  he  turned  faint. 

As  he  leaned  in  silence  against  the  little  maple 
before  the  door  a  dog  sniffed  at  his  hand  and 
then  jumped  back  with  a  muffled  snarl.  A  step 
sounded  upon  the  veranda  and  a  voice  called  soft- 
ly, "Dave!  Dave!"  The  dog  left  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's  side  and  ran  up  the  steps  with  a  low  whine. 

"  Oh,  Dave,  I  can't  bear  it ! "  a  voice  said 
brokenly,  and  there  was  a  long  silence. 

Mr.  Harding  was  moving  miserably  away 
when  Dr.  Rice  came  hurrying  downstairs.  The 
listener  heard  Faith  rise  to  meet  him. 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I've  got  to  go  away  for  a  few  minutes,  Miss 
Faith.  He  is  quiet  now.  Everything  has  gone 
well  so  far.  If  he  pulls  through  till  morning 
he'll  have  a  fighting  chance.  Get  some  sleep  if 
you  can,  poor  little  girl;  he  will  need  you  more 
later." 

Mr.  Harding  stepped  forward  into  the  light 
to  speak  to  the  doctor.  But  the  latter  gazed  at 
him  coldly  and  unrecognizingly,  raised  his  hat 
and  passed  on  without  speaking.  Mr.  Harding 
stood  with  lips  still  parted  as  if  for  speech,  gaz- 
ing at  the  receding  figure.  At  length  he  compre- 
hended the  meaning  of  the  cold  stare  and  knew 
that  he  had  lost  another  friend. 

Brooke  Street  was  very  quiet,  but  when  he 
came  out  into  Main  Street  and  Borden  Square 
he  found  that  all  Underhill  valley  seemed  to  be 
abroad.  The  street  was  alive  with  rough  fig- 
ures, moving  restlessly  up  and  down.  The  lamps 
flashed  in  pools  left  from  the  showers  of  the  aft- 
ernoon. The  air  came  up  fresh  and  damp,  mist- 
laden  from  the  river.  It  bore  also  an  unusual  ex- 
citement, and  Mr.  Harding  felt  with  keen  self- 
consciousness  that  he  was  its  centre.  The  stern, 
heavy  faces  stared  at  him  almost  malignly,  he 
thought.  He  bowed  once  or  twice  but  received 
no  response  to  his  impersonal  salutations.  So 
he  dropped  his  eyes  and  moved  nervously  toward 

352 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

the  bridge.  He  did  not  fear  personal  violence, 
but  instead  the  words  that  hurt  more  than  blows, 
—  the  open  accusation  of  what  he  knew  all  were 
thinking.  Sharp  physical  pain  would  have  been 
a  relief  to  the  dull  ache  of  body  and  mind  that 
was  slowly  numbing  him.  But  the  words  that  he 
dreaded !  —  He  hastened  his  steps. 

Suddenly  someone  jostled  him  sharply.  He 
was  tired  and  spent  with  his  illness  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  stress  of  emotion.  He  staggered 
and  put  out  his  hand  uncertainly.  It  touched  a 
bony  shoulder. 

"  Take  your  hand  off  me,  Albion  Harding !  " 
a  sharp  voice  cried.  "  Poor  as  I  be  I'm  above 
bein'  touched  by  the  like  of  you." 

The  words  sounded  far  in  the  damp,  evening 
air,  as  the  speaker  meant  they  should,  out 
over  the  heads  of  the  strolling  people.  Sudden- 
ly a  hiss  cut  the  air  sharply.  One  by  one  added 
to  its  volume. 

The  crowd  closed  up  angrily  on  Mr.  Harding, 
who,  white  and  defiant,  stood  with  lifted  head, 
gazing  into  the  lowering  faces  around  him. 
There  was  danger  in  the  air,  the  danger  which  is 
interpreted  by  utter,  bodeful  silence. 

But  just  then  the  crowd  parted  and  Francis 
Reid  stood  by  Mr.  Harding's  side.  He  grasped 
the  elder  man  by  the  arm. 

353 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  make  way 
for  us  to  pass?  "  he  said  coldly. 

The  crowd  gave  way  a  little ;  its  mind  was  not 
firmly  set  on  any  violence.  A  few  minutes  more 
might  have  seen  it  convinced  that  its  place  was 
to  forestall  the  courts;  but  Reid  had  appeared 
just  in  time. 

'  This  is  very  absurd,"  Reid  went  on  contempt- 
uously. "  I  think  there  is  no  one  here  who  knows 
Theodore  Harding  who  thinks  that  rudeness  to 
his  father  would  please  him.  Will  you  please 
make  way  for  us  ?  " 

The  mob,  holding  all  the  undeveloped  germs 
of  trouble,  gave  way  to  his  cold  courtesy  and 
let  the  two  men  pass  through. 

Mr.  Harding  leaned  heavily  on  his  compan- 
ion's arm  as  they  walked  up  the  street.  "  I'm 
not  feeling  at  all  well  tonight,"  he  said  apologet- 
ically. "  The  strain  of  the  day  and  last  night 
has  been  rather  too  much  for  me." 

Reid  was  silent.  Old  feelings  of  loyalty  and 
affection  were  struggling  with  scorn.  The  knowl- 
edge which  had  come  to  him  through  the  words 
overheard  the  night  before  had  sickened  him  of 
Mr.  Harding' s  good  qualities  even  more  than  of 
his  bad  ones.  He  did  not  know  how  this  man's 
sensitive  nature,  eager  for  praise  and  applause, 
used  all  his  life  to  esteem,  was  shrinking  from 

354 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

the  aversion  which  he  saw  on  every  face  about 
him.  Had  he  known  he  could  not  have  helped 
pitying  the  baffled,  defeated  soul,  which  knew 
better  than  any  other  the  depth  of  its  own  degra- 
dation. The  man  seemed  to  himself  very  deso- 
late and  abased  and  old. 

"  Do  you  mind  walking  up  the  hill  with  me, 
my  boy  ?  "  said  Mr.  Harding,  wistfully. 

"  Certainly  not,"  Reid  answered,  and  they 
crossed  the  bridge  and  climbed  the  hill  in  si- 
lence. 


355 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Even  in  his  weariness  Mr.  Harding  could  not 
sleep,  dozing  only  to  wake  at  once,  startled  and 
unrefreshed.  But  he  passed  through  his  outer 
office  next  morning  every  inch  of  him  soldierly. 
The  need  for  action  had  strengthened  him.  He 
could  even  meet  Burnham  with  a  calm  face. 

The  latter  sat  at  the  desk  of  the  private  office, 
scrawling  at  random  on  the  blotter.  An  unlight- 
ed  cigar  was  between  his  teeth,  his  face  was  grey 
and  heavily  lined,  his  pale  eyes  had  a  furtive, 
frightened  look  which  belied  the  firmness  of  his 
jaw. 

"  How's  the  boy  ?  "  Burnham  questioned  in  a 
tone  which  showed  how  much  he  dreaded  the 
reply. 

"  Alive,  and  with  a  chance,"  Mr.  Harding  an- 
swered briefly.  His  lips  were  dry  and  he  swal- 
lowed with  difficulty.  A  hot,  unreasoning  anger 
filled  his  veins. 

356 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Lord !  what  a  turn  it  gave  me !  "  Burnham 
said  with  the  tone  of  one  who  contemplates  a 
danger  past.  As  he  spoke  he  lit  his  cigar. 

"  There's  no  particular  cause  for  self-congrat- 
ulation yet,"  Mr.  Harding  sneered.  "  If  he  lives 
at  all  he  can  hardly  escape  being  a  cripple." 

"  I'm  devilish  sorry  for  my  part  in  it,  Hard- 
ing," Burnham  said  awkwardly,  "  and  I'm  sorry 
for  the  boy.  I  always  liked  him,  even  when  I 
was  maddest  with  him." 

Albion  Harding  was  silent.  Each  word  goad- 
ed him  almost  beyond  endurance.  He  knew  sud- 
denly the  mood  which  makes  murder  possible. 
He  could  have  slain  the  man,  who,  by  his  mis- 
management, had  killed  his  only  son  and  branded 
him  a  murderer. 

"  You  have  bungled  infernally,"  he  said  in 
the  repressed  tones  of  his  anger.  "  It  was  a  most 
fiendishly  conceived  plan  to  make  that  half- 
crazed  Jew  not  only  your  tool  but  to  make  him 
do  it  on  his  own  responsibility.  Imprisonment 
for  life  would  be  a  light  punishment  for  such 
a  crime." 

"  But  it  can't  be  fixed  on  me,  you  see,"  said 
Burnham,  flushing  an  unwholesome  purple  in  his 
anger.  "If  everything  was  known  what  would 
it  amount  to  —  that  in  a  discussion  I  suggested 
an  application,  of  some  of  the  man's  theories,  sim- 

357 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ply  by  way  of  illustration;  that  he  brooded  over 
it  and  finally  did  this  thing.  You  can't  throw  re- 
sponsibility back  like  that.  If  you  do,  go  one 
step  farther  and  where  are  you  ?  It  will  be  pretty 
talk  for  Underhill,  and  for  missionary  meetings, 
that  Brother  Harding  killed  his  son  to  get  his 
competition  out  of  the  way  of  the  American. 
There's  as  much  proof  against  you  as  against 
me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  you  err.  I  have  your 
own  confession  that  you  have  played  upon  this 
poor  man's  superstitions  and  dreams  to  make  him 
do  this  thing."  Mr.  Harding  could  never  name 
the  deed. 

"  And  there's  my  word  that  you  told  me  to 
take  any  measures  I  saw  fit  in  dealing  with  your 
son." 

"  Which  statement  I  shall  absolutely  deny," 
said  Mr.  Harding  coolly.  "  I  restricted  your  ac- 
tion very  definitely  and  you  chose  to  disregard 
my  restrictions." 

"  You  can  deny  anything  you  want  to.  You 
talk  as  if  you  had  only  to  say  a  thing  for  every- 
body to  believe  it.  I  don't  know  as  there  would 
be  so  much  to  choose  as  you  think  between  your 
word  and  mine.  The  public  in  general  thinks 
full  as  much  of  a  man  who  admits  he's  bad,  as 
it  does  of  one  who's  always  swelling  around  in 

358 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

prayer-meeting,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  tell 
you,  your  missionary  business  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing  don't  count  near  as  much  as  you 
think.  It  don't  pull  the  wool  over  anybody's 
eyes.  And  as  for  the  money  you  give, —  there's 
been  a  d — n  sight  too  much  dirty  money  scatter- 
ed round  the  country,  in  the  last  ten  years,  for 
that  to  make  much  impression  on  folks'  minds." 

Roger  Burnham's  face  was  deeply  red,  the 
big  veins  in  his  neck  were  swollen,  his  small  eyes 
glared.  He  was  angry  through  and  through, 
but  he  was  enjoying  himself.  He  had  said  his 
say,  and  he  made  no  attempt  at  resistance  when 
Mr.  Harding  touched  a  bell  and  said  coldly  to 
the  clerk  who  presented  himself, 

"  Mr.  Phillips,  will  you  kindly  show  Mr.  Burn- 
ham  to  the  door." 

Burnham  turned  in  the  outer  office  and  said 
deliberately, 

"  You  better  think  twice,  Harding.  You'll 
find  it  hard  to  get  along  without  someone  to  do 
your  dirty  work  for  you."  Then  he  stumped 
through  the  long  room,  at  the  heels  of  the  smil- 
ing clerk. 

Mr.  Harding  rose  to  his  feet  as  soon  as  his 

guest  had  left.     He  had  something  to  do.     It 

was  not  the  thing  which  impulse  prompted.     He 

would   gladly  have  called   aloud   to   the   whole 

359 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

world  —  "I  have  sinned,  as  few  other  men  be- 
fore me  have  done.  Do  with  me  as  you  will.  I 
have  sinned,  but  God  knows  I  have  suffered. 
Pity  me !  "  If  he  could  explain  all  his  long  strug- 
gle against  the  hateful  pressure  of  necessity,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  some  hand  must  be  extend- 
ed to  him  in  sympathy.  But  all  the  instincts  of 
a  life  of  self-control  were  against  any  such  step. 
It  had  become  a  habit  with  him  to  face  fate  un- 
swervingly. So  instead  of  anything  more  sensa- 
tional he  left  his  office  determined  to  persuade 
Reid  to  aid  him. 

He  did  not  know  even  when  he  faced  Reid  be- 
fore the  editorial  desk  on  what  grounds  he  meant 
to  ask  the  favor.  The  young  man's  face  did  not 
look  inviting;  his  straight  brows  were  drawn  to- 
gether in  a  frown  and  he  seemed  troubled.  But 
his  companion  was  in  no  mood  to  study  faces 
carefully.  He  had  no  heart  for  his  usual  di- 
plomacy. The  nervous  eagerness  for  action 
which  possessed  him  brooked  no  delay. 

"  Mr.  Reid,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  what  stand 
the  '  Criterion  '  intends  to  take  in  the  late  unfor- 
tunate occurrence.  It  may  be  that  this  is  a  strange 
question  for  me  to  ask,  but  I  am  in  a  desperately 
hard  place.  There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  blink 
the  fact  that  people  seem  to  think  I  had  something 
to  gain  by  the  accident  to  my  son  —  and  that 
360 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

therefore  I  must  have  had  a  hand  in  it.  I  hardly 
see  why  they  are  so  ready  to  believe  the  worst 
of  me." 

Reid  felt  little  pity  for  Mr.  Harding's  evident 
suffering.  He  answered  coldly, 

"  The  public  accuses  you  of  many  things,  Mr. 
Harding,  for  which  you  are  not  directly  respon- 
sible. That  makes  it  all  the  easier  for  it  to  sus- 
pect you  of  this.  You  must  admit  that  appear- 
ances are  against  you." 

"  How  could  I  have  helped  that  ?  One  man 
cannot  attend  to  all  the  details  of  a  business  like 
this." 

"  The  head  of  a  business  is  responsible  for  the 
general  spirit  which  pervades  it.  That  is  where 
the  responsibility  lies,"  Reid  answered  firmly. 

Mr.  Harding's  pale  face  grew  paler.  The 
bright  light  of  the  June  morning  showed  many 
weary  lines  and  the  cringing  of  fear  in  the  dark 
eyes. 

"  But  this  is  beside  the  matter,"  he  continued 
hastily.  "  Can  you  answer  the  question  which 
I  asked  at  the  outset  of  our  conversation?  You 
cannot  guess  what  a  comfort  the  backing  of  the 
'  Criterion  '  would  be  to  me.  The  '  Criterion  ' 
has  grown  to  have  a  great  influence  in  the  state. 
Public  opinion  will  take  its  cue  largely  from  it." 
361 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  I  have  not  decided  what  I  shall  do,"  Reid 
said  slowly. 

"  Mr.   Barker  —  ?  "   Mr.   Harding  suggested. 

"  I  have  entire  control  while  Mr.  Barker  is 
away.  I  don't  even  know  where  he  is." 

"  Then  if  I  should  swear  to  you  that  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  that  the  American 
did  not,  with  any  knowledge  of  mine!  I  knew 
no  more  of  it  than  you  did." 

Reid  pondered  on  the  force  of  the  past  tense 
of  the  verb,  knew,  in  silence. 

"  Now  if  you  believe  that  I  was  not  connected 
in  any  way  with  this  awful  deed  won't  you  say 
so?"  Mr.  Harding  continued  persuasively. 

Reid  was  unmoved.  "I  will  gladly  publish 
any  statement  with  your  name  attached.  More 
than  that  I  cannot  promise." 

"  But,  Mr.  Reid,  don't  you  see  that  it  would 
be  utterly  useless  for  me  to  do  that?  While  if 
you  should  say  the  same  thing  —  people  know 
you  have  been  connected  with  the  American  and 
must  know  a  great  deal  of  the  way  it  is  managed. 
If  you  could  say  that  such  a  thing  was  not  con- 
sistent with  the  management  of  the  American, 
nor  with  my  character  —  I  think  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  it  would  mean  to  me."  The  eager  voice 
faltered. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Harding,  but  I  cannot  under- 
362 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

take  your  defence.  What  I  have  seen  of  the 
American  doesn't  altogether  reassure  me  as  to 
its  part  in  this  matter.  I  want  to  say  again  that 
I  do  not  disbelieve  your  statement  that  you  had 
no  direct  part  in  it ;  but  I  know  only  too  well  the 
spirit  that  has  sometimes  actuated  the  conduct 
of  your  corporation." 

Reid  paused  abruptly.  The  interview  was  in- 
tensely painful  to  him.  He  felt  the  older  man's 
shame  with  a  personal  shrinking.  There  was  a 
long  silence  while  Mr.  Harding  sat  biting  his 
white  lips  and  gazing  out  into  the  sunshine. 

"  I  have  not  been  unmindful  of  past  or  pres- 
ent favors,  Mr.  Harding,"  Reid  continued.  "  I 
have  kept  silent  too  long  because  I  respected  you 
so  much.  But  I  cannot  do  so  any  longer.  I  feel 
like  a  criminal.  My  championship  could  have 
made  no  difference,  but  I  wish  I  could  look  back 
and  remember  that  I  had  stood  by  Teddy." 
Reid's  clear  voice  broke.  "  But  I  am  not  going 
to  hesitate  any  longer.  I  shall  come  out  to- 
morrow against  the  American.  I  don't  know  yet 
what  I  shall  say;  I  shall  try  to  avoid  personali- 
ties as  far  as  possible,  you  may  be  sure  of  that, 
and  of  course  I  shall  always  remember  that  any- 
thing which  I  may  have  learned  while  I  was  in 
your  office  is  not  at  my  disposal." 

Reid  finished  firmly.  It  was  always  a  relief 
363 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

when  he  at  length  reached  a  decision.  More- 
over, he  now  felt  absolutely  sure  of  his  own  wis- 
dom. The  theory  of  the  combine  remained  un- 
changed —  but  this  one  of  the  number  had  sin- 
ned shamefully.  If  he  could  find  proof  of  its 
connection  with  this  last  enormity  Reid  meant  to 
do  so. 

Mr.  Harding  gazed  at  the  younger  man  coldly. 
A  fire  in  his  eyes  had  dried  up  the  tears.  He  had 
one  last  card  to  play.  He  had  been  reluctant 
to  use  it ;  he  realized  that  if  driven  to  this  thing  he 
should  have  parted  with  another  portion  of  his 
self-respect.  But  if  his  terms  should  be  accepted 
the  case  would  be  less  humiliating,  somehow,  than 
if  they  were  refused.  The  possibility  had  been 
continually  before  him  and  he  had  preferred  to 
humiliate  himself  to  beg  a  favor  rather  than  to 
grasp  this  last  resort ;  but  at  length  he  spoke. 

"  I  suppose  you  recognize  the  fact  that  I  have 
some  claim  upon  your  consideration  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  said  that  already  ?  I  realize  that 
I  am  under  obligations  to  you,  Mr.  Harding,  that 
a  discharge  of  my  pecuniary  debt  will  never  re- 
lease. As  for  the  money  you  were  so  good  as  to 
lend  me,  I  told  you  when  you  offered  the  loan 
that  it  would  take  me  some  time  to  discharge 
it."  A  sudden  and  horrible  thought  flashed  over 
him.  Mr.  Harding  might  have  a  writ  of  attach- 
364 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ment  served  and  suspend  the  publication  of  the 
paper.  Barker  was  in  the  wilds  of  Canada,  out 
of  reach  of  mail  or  telegraph.  Reid  lifted  his 
head  proudly. 

"  We  need  not  talk  of  your  indebtedness,  Mr. 
Reid,"  said  Albion  Harding  suavely.  His  tone 
was  benevolent,  but  the  uncompromising  light 
from  the  big  window  showed  that  his  eyes  had 
narrowed  and  grown  crafty.  "  No,  your  little 
indebtedness  is  a  slight  matter.  In  fact  I  shall 
be  glad  to  give  you  a  receipt  for  it  at  any  time 
you  wish.  You  have  it  in  your  power  to  benefit 
me  far  more  than  that  paltry  sum  can  ever  re- 
pay." 

Reid  looked  at  his  companion  in  amazement. 
At  first  he  did  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of 
the  words  he  had  just  heard.  Then  suddenly  he 
understood.  He  rose  with  his  thin  lips  drawn 
back  over  his  perfect  teeth. 

"  We  need  not  discuss  this  matter  further,  Mr. 
Harding.  We  can  hardly  come  to  an  agree- 
ment," he  said  coldly.  He  walked  toward  the 
door  and  Mr.  Harding,  propelled  by  an  unknown 
force,  followed  him  as  meekly  as  repulsed  suitor 
had  ever  left  his  office  in  times  past.  At  the 
door  Reid  said, 

"  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  you  should  know 
that  I  overheard  something  which  Roger  Burn- 
365 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ham  said  to  you  on  the  night  of  the  accident." 
He  repeated  the  words  coldly  and  accurately. 
"  Good-day." 

Reid  went  back  to  his  desk  seething  with  an- 
ger. The  bribe  seemed  to  him  then  entirely  a 
personal  insult;  not,  as  it  was,  the  last  resort 
of  desperation.  But  even  in  the  midst  of  his  tu- 
mult of  feeling  he  decided  that  if  possible  he 
must  secure  the  money  to  pay  his  debt  to  Mr. 
Harding ;  so  he  went  out  into  the  June  air  shim- 
mering with  heat  and  full  of  the  scent  of  roses. 

It  seemed  to  give  Doctor  Rice  a  keen  pleasure 
to  help  Reid  against  Mr.  Harding.  He  had 
changed  from  friend  to  foe  with  the  thorough- 
ness which  characterized  everything  he  did. 

"  Never  you  fear,  young  man,"  he  said  vigor- 
ously when  he  had  listened  to  Reid's  story.  "  I'll 
see  that  the  money  is  in  your  hands  by  night.  I 
haven't  that  much  where  I  can  get  at  it  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  but  I  can  get  it  for  you. 
I'm  only  too  glad  —  the  scoundrel !  " 

In  the  street  in  front  of  Mrs.  Ordway's  house, 
Reid  met  Max  Rubinovitch. 

"How  is  he?"  the  latter  said  breathlessly, 
without  waiting  for  any  salutation. 

"  No  change,  I  guess,"  Reid  answered  gloom- 
ily. "  Not  much  hope !  " 

"  I  didn't  think  he  was  in  the  mill.  How  did 
366 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

he  happen  to  be  ?  He  went  away,"  said  Rubino- 
vitch,  wildly. 

"  He  missed  the  train,  I  think ;  but  where  he 
was,  or  what  he  was  doing  all  that  time,  God 
knows." 

"  I  thought  he  was  away,"  Rubinovitch  reiter- 
ated. "  He  was  about  the  only  friend  I  had  in 
the  world." 

Reid  turned  languidly,  not  greatly  interested 
in  Rubinovitch' s  regrets.  The  narcotic  influence 
of  the  noon  was  in  his  veins.  For  forty-eight 
hours  he  had  hardly  slept.  Pictures,  floating  con- 
tinuously before  his  eyes,  had  kept  him  awake. 
One  vision  after  another  had  drifted  past  him :  a 
girl's  white  accusing  face;  an  anxious  glossy 
dog,  a  man's  narrowed,  cringing  eyes,  a  crowd 
with  white  faces  in  the  light  of  flames,  men  la- 
boring with  parted  lips  and  distorted  faces  over 
heaps  of  ruins.  But  while  the  others  passed  one 
returned  again  and  again  —  a  face  ghastly  white, 
with  matted  hair,  bluish  lips  drawn  away  from 
clenched  teeth,  and  crimson  flecks  on  the  brown 
beard.  Now  weariness  prevailed  and  he  sought 
his  room  and  fell  asleep. 

How  long  his  slumber  lasted  he  did  not  know. 

Suddenly  he  awakened  with  a  start.  One  thought 

stood  forth  clearly  —  Rubinovitch  did  it !     The 

mind  had  worked  while  the  body  slept,  and  had 

367 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

solved  the  vexing  problem.  He  saw  in  a  flash 
how  reasonable  the  matter  was.  Rubinovitch's 
own  words,  "  I  didn't  think  he  was  in  the  mill. 
He  went  away,"  had  been  spoken  in  the  tone  of 
one  trying-  to  justify  himself.  He  remembered 
the  incoherent  argument  of  a  contribution  which 
the  Jew  had  submitted  to  the  "Criterion"  not 
long  before  —  an  argument  which  censured  the 
opponents  of  the  trust  for  standing  in  the  way 
of  progress.  He  remembered  Burnham's  asser- 
tion of  the  night  before,  and  the  fact  that  he  had 
seen  the  two  together  several  times  that  spring. 
More  convincing  than  all  was  the  regret  of  Ru- 
binovitch's whole  appearance. 

Reid  thought  the  matter  was  plain  and  clear; 
but  as  he  considered  it  longer  he  saw  that  he  had 
no  proof ;  at  best  he  had  established  a  probability. 
But  although  he  had  nothing  definite  to  offer  he 
had  his  own  certainty.  Burning  words  filled  his 
mind,  sentences  formed  which  must  be  written. 
His  pen  was  winged  and  barbed.  Out  of  the 
white  heat  of  his  anger  and  grief,  he  wrote  that 
biting  arraignment  of  the  methods  of  the  trust, 
called  "  An  Accusation,"  which  was  copied 
throughout  the  country,  in  weeks  that  followed, 
and  made  his  name. 


368 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

The  sun  was  just  rising.  Bird-songs  rippled 
and  tinkled  from  the  maples.  Great  gushes  of 
soft  air  lifted  the  muslin  curtains  of  the  cham- 
ber and  let  them  fall  again.  Up  from  the  garden 
came  the  scent  of  dew-drenched  roses,  almost 
drowning  the  odor  of  drugs  in  the  sick  room. 

Faith  Ordway  was  watching  by  her  lover's 
side  while  the  nurse  slept.  She  had  been  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  with  her  hand  in  his  when 
he  had  fallen  asleep.  Gradually  the  cramped  po- 
sition grew  unbearable.  Softly  she  sank  to  her 
knees,  and  just  as  the  first  low  sunbeam  fell  on 
the  drawn  blind  she  closed  her  aching  eyes. 

She  was  not  sleeping,  however;  every  nerve 
was  too  tense.  The  bird-songs  clashed  painfully 
on  her  ears,  the  perfume  of  the  roses  made  her 
faint.  All  the  sweet  things  of  nature  seemed 
only  a  mockery  of  life's  bitterness.  This  was 
her  wedding  morning,  rising  as  such  a  happy 

369 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

day  should  with  sunshine.  She  thought,  as  she 
crouched  there  with  her  hand  in  that  hot  clasp,  of 
the  day  as  she  had  planned  it,  with  its  whiteness 
of  wedding  garments,  its  greeting  friends.  And 
then,  the  cheerful  bustle  over,  the  drive  through 
the  late  June  afternoon  out  to  Clear  Pond,  and 
the  golden  sunset  through  the  pine-stems.  She 
knew  that  this  could  never  be.  She  knew  that 
every  hour  he  clung  to  life  increased  Theodore's 
chances;  she  had  seen  that  daily  Dr.  Rice's  face 
lost  a  little  of  its  anxiety.  But  she  also  knew, 
with  keen  intuition,  that  such  a  clinging  to  life 
might  in  the  end  be  harder  for  Theodore's  rest- 
less, active  temperament  than  death. 

The  birds  sang  on  more  jubilantly  without; 
the  narrow  strip  of  sunlight  crept  along  the  floor. 
Faith  was  thinking  numbly  of  the  blight  which 
had  come  over  both  their  lives,  when  a  voice 
said  huskily, 

"  Faith." 

She  lifted  her  head  startled.     Theodore  had 
not  known  her  before,  though  he  had  never  failed 
to  be  quieted  by  her  presence.     Now  there  was 
recognition  in  the  tired,  heavy-lidded  eyes. 
x     "What  is  it,  Theodore?"  Faith  asked  gently. 

"Wasn't  it  today?"  he  whispered,  with  long 
pauses  between  the  words. 
370 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Faith  hesitated  a  moment  but  something  told 
her  what  he  meant. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said. 

"I  —  thought  —  so,"  he  replied  with  a  glim- 
mer of  fun  in  his  eyes.  "A  —  fellow  doesn't  — 
usually  forget  —  his  wedding  day." 

Faith  laid  her  cheek  on  his  hand,  already  grow- 
ing thin  and  white.  She  could  not  speak,  she 
was  struggling  vainly,  for  the  first  time,  for  self- 
control.  What  all  the  horror  and  tragedy  and  the 
grief  of  others  had  failed  to  do,  this  touch  of  the 
old  familiar  lightness  had  done. 

"  Don't,"  said  the  man  as  he  felt  her  form 
shaken  with  sobs. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Faith  stroked  his 
hand  softly  as  she  slowly  regained  her  self-con- 
trol. 

"  Could  we  —  be  —  married  —  just  —  the 
same?  "  the  halting  voice  went  on.  "It  —  won't 
make  —  much  —  difference  —  to  you,"  there 
was  a  long  pause,  "  and  —  it  will  —  to  me." 

Faith  knew  what  he  meant.  She  foresaw  that 
he  would  be  less  willing  to  tie  her  to  him  if  he 
thought  the  future  of  his  invalidism  would  be 
long.  So  she  did  not  enlighten  him  just  then. 
She  simply  said, 

"  I  would  be  glad,   dear,   if  Dr.   Rice  thinks 
you  are  strong  enough.  I  will  speak  to  him  about 
371 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

it.  Don't  say  another  word,"  and  she  stooped 
and  kissed  him. 

"  Frank  —  will  see  —  to  everything,"  he  gasp- 
ed more  faintly. 

"  Yes,  yes,  now  be  quiet." 

When  the  nurse  relieved  her,  Faith  stole  out 
to  her  hammock  on  the  veranda.  She  wished  to 
think  quietly,  and  she  wanted  to  intercept  Dr. 
Rice  and  warn  him  of  Theodore's  desire. 

After  the  doctor  had  gone  upstairs  on  his 
early  morning  visit,  Faith  sat  there  with  the 
leafy  shadows  weaving  over  her  weary  face  and 
bright  hair.  She  was  trying  to  justify  herself. 
She  felt  that  Theodore  was  acting  in  ignorance 
of  the  possibility,  hourly  growing  stronger.  She 
felt  that  she  was  deceiving  him  from  her  stand- 
point of  broader  knowledge.  But  she  knew  that 
for  a  long  time,  if  he  recovered,  he  would  need 
close  and  devoted  care,  and  she  feared  that  he 
would  not  let  her  bind  herself  to  his  wrecked  life 
if  he  knew  all.  She  knew  that  he  needed  the 
care  which  she  could  give  him  only  as  his  wife, 
and  she  knew,  moreover,  that  she  was  satisfying 
her  own  desire. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dr.  Rice  as  he  came  out  upon  the 
veranda  again.  "  He  is  certainly  stronger.  You 
must  do  it  all  just  as  quietly  as  possible.  Be  mat- 
ter-of-fact, and  don't  let  there  be  any  excitement. 
372 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

And  don't  say  anything  more  about  it  until  the 
time  comes." 

"  And  you  think  it  is  the  right  thing  to  do?  " 
Faith  queried.  The  two  had  been  firm  friends 
ever  since  Mr.  Ordway's  sickness  and  death. 
"  You  see  he  doesn't  understand.  He  thinks  he 
isn't  going  to  live.  It  seems  as  if  I  were  taking 
an  advantage  of  him  in  some  way." 

"  He  may  not  live,  remember  that.  Don't  hope 
for  too  much.  But  you  know  best  about  the  oth- 
er. You  know  what  you  are  undertaking  —  may 
be  undertaking." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  I  care  for  that  —  am 
afraid  of  that  ?  "  the  girl  flashed  out. 

"  No,  I  didn't,  to  tell  the  truth.  I  know  you 
too  well  by  this  time,"  Dr.  Rice  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  the  girl's  arm.  "  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
don't  think  Harding  is  to  be  envied,  no  matter 
what  comes.  Run  in  and  get  your  breakfast, 
child." 

When  Faith  entered  the  dining  room  she  saw 
Mrs.  Harding  and  her  mother  seated  there.  Mrs. 
Harding,  daintily  gowned  as  usual,  but  worn  and 
anxious,  had  just  driven  down  from  the  hill  for 
the  first  news  of  the  morning.  Faith  languidly 
took  the  breakfast  which  her  mother  served,  and 
tried  to  think  of  some  way  in  which  to  tell  the 
two  women.  At  last  she  said  simply, 

373 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"  Theodore  wants  to  be  married  today  just  as 
we  had  planned." 

"  My  dear,  you  would  never  dare,"  Mrs. 
Harding  interposed  quickly.  "  It  might  prove 
fatal."  Matters  stood  much  as  before  between 
Faith  and  Mrs.  Harding.  The  latter  had  grown 
to  admire  and  respect  the  courageous  and  self- 
contained  girl ;  but  as  she  saw  the  younger  wom- 
an given  privileges  and  responsibilities  in  the 
sick  room  which  were  denied  her,  a  fierce  jeal- 
ousy sprang  up.  She  felt  bitterly  that,  with 
Faith  once  Theodore's  wife,  there  would  indeed 
be  no  place  for  her.  She  had  hoped  that  this  ac- 
cident might  defer  the  marriage.  So  she  was 
still  unconvinced  when  Faith  said  wearily, 

"  Dr.  Rice  says  it's  not  too  dangerous  an  ex- 
periment. I  have  talked  with  him.  He  says  that 
it  must  be  done  very  quietly  and  with  no  excite- 
ment." 

"  But  there  will  necessarily  be  excitement," 
Mrs.  Harding  persisted  earnestly.  "  I'm  sure 
Mr.  Harding  would  not  think  it  wise." 

Faith's  face  burned  with  a  sudden,  angry  rush 
of  color  and  she  opened  her  lips  hastily.  She 
opened  her  lips,  but  she  closed  them  again  with- 
out speech.  Mrs.  Harding  continued  quietly. 

"  I  can  realize,  my  dear,  that  aside  from  every 
thing  else,  the  mere  postponement  of  your  wed- 
374 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ding  day  is  painful  to  you.  But  you  wouldn't 
wish  to  endanger  Theodore's  life." 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  don't  you  see,  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing, it  is  better  not  to  deny  him  if  he  wishes  it? 
Dr.  Rice  says  so." 

Faith  was  breaking  her  egg  automatically.  Her 
whole  body  ached  from  fatigue  and  lack  of  sleep. 
Her  tired  nerves  cried  out  fiercely  against  what 
the  soft  voice  was  saying,  but  her  brain  refused 
to  furnish  her  with  reasons.  She  hardly  knew 
what  she  said.  She  noticed  that  her  mother  was 
watching  her  anxiously,  and  even  that  loving 
gaze  irritated  her.  She  wished  to  be  alone  in 
the  quiet  of  the  screened  sick  room. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  seem  intrusive,  my  dear," 
Mrs.  Harding  replied.  "  But  you  must  remem- 
ber that  he  is  my  son,  that  his  welfare  is  as  dear 
to  me  as  it  is  to  you.  Let  me  consult  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. I'm  sure  he  would  advise — " 

The  last  allusion  was  too  much  for  Faith's  self- 
restraint.  She  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
leaving  her  breakfast  almost  untasted  she  turned 
and  left  the  room. 

There  was  a  moment's  astonished  silence.  Mrs. 
Harding  saw  in  this  nothing  more  than  an  un- 
expected touch  of  anger  at  being  thwarted.  She 
bit  her  lip  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Ordway  reproach- 
fully. The  latter  was  all  on  fire  for  her  daugh- 

375 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ter  and  spoke  sharply,  forgetting  the  deference 
which  she  habitually  paid  to  Mrs.  Harding's 
grace  and  elegance. 

"  There,  she's  gone  off  and  ain't  ate  hardly  a 
mite  o'f  breakfast,  an'  she  needs  everything  she 
can  take  to  keep  her  up." 

Mrs.  Harding  opened  her  blue  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment at  Mrs.  Ordway.  She  had  never  liked  the 
blunt,  plain  woman.  She  had  never  seen  the 
worth  beneath  the  garrulous,  ungrammatical 
speech.  In  Mrs.  Ordway  lay  one  of  Evelyn 
Harding's  strongest  objections  to  Faith.  Now 
she  spoke,  courteously,  to  be  sure,  but  a  little  in- 
differently. 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry  if  I  said  anything 
to  offend  her.  I  didn't  know  she  took  offence 
so  easily." 

"I  do'  know's  she's  any  quicker  to  take  offence 
than  the  average.  I  should  think  you  could  see 
she's  all  wore  out.  She  ain't  slep'  more'n  an 
hour  at  a  stretch,  I  guess,  for  a  week,  an'  ain't 
eaten  anything  but  what  she's  forced  down;  an* 
then  havin'  you  bring  him  up  that  way  — " 

Mrs.  Harding  was  genuinely  astonished.  She 
had  received  no  hint  of  popular  speculation  in 
regard  to  the  accident.  Her  suspicions  of  the 
spring,  though  hardly  laid  at  rest  by  Mr.  Hard- 
ing's assertions,  had  lain  dormant.  They  could 

376 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

never  have  mounted  to  include  such  a  crime  as 
this.  Mr.  Harding's  anxiety  and  grief  had  been 
perfectly  explicable  on  other  grounds.  She  had 
no  inkling  of  Mrs.  Ordway's  meaning,  but  some- 
thing in  the  tone  of  the  remark  startled  her. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

In  a  calmer  moment  Mrs.  Ordway  would  not 
have  inflicted  this  wound.  But  the  slight  to  her 
child,  the  imputation  of  ill-temper  at  this  time, 
of  all  others,  touched  the  mother  to  the  quick. 
Moreover,  she  loved  Theodore,  and  her  heart 
was  as  yet  unhealed  for  her  own  grief.  The 
same  agency  had  wrought  cruel  harm  in  both 
cases.  To  her  practical  mind  Albion  Harding, 
the  nominal  head  of  the  American,  became  di- 
rectly responsible  for  the  death  of  her  husband 
and  the  accident  to  the  man  who  would  have  been 
her  son.  She  believed  him  nothing  better  than 
a  murderer,  and  her  heart  was  full  of  anger 
against  him.  So  she  answered : 

"  I  sh'd  think  y'd  know  what  I  mean.  I  mean 
that  he's  been  mixed  up  in  this  matter  too  much 
already.  That's  what  everybody's  saying." 

"What  is  everybody  saying?"  Mrs.  Harding 
demanded,  the  faint  flush  fading  from  her  face. 
She  did  not  yet  grasp  Mrs.  Ordway's  meaning. 
The  woman's  manner,  however,  and  the  hint  of 

377 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

some  aspersion  against  her  husband,  frightened 
her. 

Mrs.  Ordway  hesitated.  It  was  no  easy  thing 
to  tell  a  woman  that  her  husband  was  reputed 
the  murderer  of  his  son.  Even  her  anger  and 
grief  paused  at  it  for  a  moment ;  but  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing gave  her  no  chance  for  hesitation. 

"  What  are  they  saying?  "  she  repeated.  Her 
voice  did  not  grow  louder,  but  its  soft  notes  grew 
hard.  "  You  shall  tell  me !  You  must,  now  you 
have  said  so  much."  Her  manner  compelled 
Mrs.  Ordway. 

"They're  sayin'  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
American,  Theodore  Harding  wouldn't  be  a  lay- 
in'  there,"  she  said  fiercely.  The  mere  phrasing 
of  her  hitherto  unspoken  thought  increased  her 
anger.  She  went  on  with  the  rest  of  her  accusa- 
tion with  a  rush. 

"  An'  they  say,  an'  I  know,  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Albion  Harding  and  the  American,  my 
husband  would  'a'  been  livin'  yet.  Not  but  I 
am  better  off  than  you  are,  this  minute,  for  I 
can  look  back  an'  think  that  he  never  knowin'ly 
wronged  a  man  in  his  life, — an'  now  you  can  see 
why  Faithy  wouldn't  be  likely  to  ask  Mr.  Hard- 
ing about  anything." 

"  Does  she  believe  that  ?  "  Mrs.  Harding  asked 
378 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

faintly.  She  sat  white  and  still,  shocked  into 
numbness  by  the  awful  accusation. 

"  She  hasn't  said  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ordway  slow- 
ly. "  But  I  guess  she  does.  Why  shouldn't 
she?  Who  else  has  got  anything  to  gain  by  it? 
How  did  it  happen,  anyway  ?  It  was  blowed  up, 
plain  enough." 

Mrs.  Harding  had  no  specific  defence  of  her 
husband  to  offer.  She  had  not  thought  the  mat- 
ter out  for  herself,  nor  tried  to  find  definite  rea- 
sons for  the  accident.  She  had "  a  dim  theory 
that  machinery,  and  boilers,  and  all  the  equip- 
ment of  a  factory  were  dangerous  and  subject 
to  explosion  or  other  fatal  misadventure.  She 
had  not  considered  the  necessity  of  accounting 
for  the  accident  by  any  outside  agency.  Now 
she  could  only  reiterate  haughtily,  with  an  em- 
phasis which  covered  her  inward  distress  — . 

"  It  is  perfectly  absurd.  I  supposed  Mr. 
Harding  was  better  known  in  Underbill." 

Something  in  the  cold  contempt  of  her  tone 
quenched  Mrs.  Ordway's  kindling  pity,  and 
moved  her  to  further  speech. 

"  Underbill  is  gittin*  to  know  Mr.  Harding ; 
there  ain't  a  mite  of  doubt  about  it.  An'  the 
more  it  comes  to  know,  the  readier  it  gits  to  be- 
lieve things.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say  he  done  it 
himself;  but  he  knows  who  done  it,  an'  he  ain't 
379 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

any  object  in  followin'  of  it  up.  You  can  ask 
him  an'  see.  I  used  to  be  pretty  sharp  with  fa- 
ther sometimes  because  he  didn't  take  much  stock 
in  Mr.  Harding.  I  wish't  I  had  back  some  of 
the  things  I've  said  to  him  about  it.  I  used  to 
think  because  he  spoke  a  good  deal  in  prayer- 
meetin'  an'  give  to  missions  he  was  better  than 
father.  But  I  know  now  which  was  the  good 
man.  Father  said  you  couldn't  tell  what  a  man 
would  do  when  he  got  so  much  power  in  his 
hands,  an'  I  guess  you  can't.  'Tany  rate,  Mr. 
Harding' s  surprised  us  all.  But,  there,  what's 
the  use  talkin'  ?  You  won't  believe  the  things 
I'm  a  sayin'  of,  an'  'taint  fittin'  you  should.  I'm 
most  sorry  I  said  anythin'  about  it,"  she  added, 
relenting  as  she  saw  Mrs.  Harding's  ashen  face. 
"  It  don't  do  no  good  to  say  hard  things  — ." 
Her  voice  trailed  off  into  silence  as  she  went  to 
find  Faith,  and  coax  her  back  to  her  unfinished 
breakfast. 

Mrs.  Harding  rose  and  left  the  room.  The 
carriage  was  waiting  without  and  she  drove  to 
her  husband's  office.  She  crossed  the  outer 
room  swiftly,  trailing  her  lavender  muslin  heed- 
lessly over  the  floor,  and  entered  the  private  office 
without  knocking. 

Albion  Harding  turned  at  her  entrance.  Nat- 
380 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

urally  enough  he  misinterpreted  her  frightened 
face. 

"Theodore?"  and  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  a 
peculiar  whiteness  about  his  mouth.  His  whole 
face  was  full  of  fear.  Mrs.  Harding  eyed  him 
keenly.  It  might  be  the  fear  that  any  father  feels 
for  his  son's  welfare. 

"No!  No!"  she  said.  "Theodore  is 
stronger  this  morning.  Really  better,  they 
think." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

'Tell  me,  Albion,  how  did  it  happen?" 

'  The  accident  ?  —  I  have  heard  many  theories 
advanced  but  none  of  them  seem  really  satisfac- 
tory." He  was  temporizing,  but  he  knew  that 
she  had  heard  what  all  Underhill  was  saying. 

'  They  say  you  did  it?  "  the  words  were  out. 
Mrs.  Harding  paused,  shocked,  now  the  sus- 
picion was  actually  spoken.  She  feared  her  hus- 
band's outburst  of  anger;  but  he  did  not  retort. 
Instead,  that  look  came  into  his  face  —  the  look 
which  she  had  seen  before  Theodore's  accusa- 
tion. 

'  Then  you  have  heard  that  ?  "  he  said  slowly. 

"  Tell  me,  Albion,  you  did  not  do  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  do  it,  Evelyn,"  he  said  solemnly. 
He  meant  to  brave  it  out  for  her  sake,  although 
he  was  weary  of  pretences  for  his  own.  He  had 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

no  doubt  that  she  would  believe  him  implicitly, 
and  that  it  would  save  her  much  pain.  Then  came 
a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling.  There  had  never 
been  anything  but  truth  between  them.  He  could 
not  bear  to  see  her  face  lighten  at  his  falsehood. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  he  could  have  firmly 
deceived  her  for  her  own  sake;  but  now  he  had 
not  the  heart.  His  one  desire  was  for  confes- 
sion. He  caught  his  breath. 

"I  did  not  do  it,"  he  reiterated.  "But  I 
would  to  God,  Evelyn,  that  I  did  not  feel  a  weight 
of  responsibility  for  it.  Wait,  and  I  will  tell  you 
everything,  and  you  shall  judge.  I  did  not  mean 
any  harm  to  the  boy.  Nobody  meant  any  harm 
to  him.  But  we  were  desperate.  If  matters 
had  gone  against  us  in  Congress,  Theodore's 
power  with  the  opposition  would  have  meant  our 
ruin  —  and  that  meant  so  much.  So  many  in- 
terests !  so  many  people  with  only  a  little  money 
to  lose  their  all,  and  it  meant  the  failure  of  a 
principle.  Oh,  I  can't  make  you  understand  it, 
Evelyn  —  but  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
And  so  I  —  told  Mr.  Burnham  if  he  could  by 
any  honorable  means  put  a  stop  —  to  Theodore's 
activity, —  to  do  it.  It  hurt  me,  even  that !  And 
this !  This  is  what  he  did.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
—  he  is  not  legally  responsible  for  anything  — 
but  he  has  spoiled  our  boy's  life!  Don't  you  be- 
382 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

lieve  what  I  have  said?     Before  God,   Evelyn, 
that  is  all  the  part  I  had  in  it !  " 

"  All  the  part !  "  she  said  slowly,  with  stiff 
lips.  Then  she  turned  and  left  the  room. 

In  the  long,  anxious  days  that  followed,  she 
sat  at  his  table,  and  cared  for  his  welfare.  But 
she  never  gave  him  a  sight  into  her  feelings  to- 
ward him.  Whether  she  believed  in  his  state- 
ment or  in  the  worst  that  the  press  said  of  him, 
he  did  not  know ;  and  he  began  to  wonder  if  he 
had  ever  really  understood  her. 


383 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Albion  Harding  drove  up  the  hill  one  crisp 
morning  in  October,  glad  to  reach  home  once 
more  from  New  York.  His  eagerness  was 
chilled  when  he  found  his  wife  absent,  and  could 
get  no  news  of  her  whereabouts  from  the  serv- 
ants. She  had  departed  as  soon  as  breakfast 
was  over  without  leaving  any  word.  He  could 
guess,  however,  where  she  was.  The  echoing 
house,  spacious  but  barren  of  love,  seemed  to  him 
symbolic  of  the  emptiness  of  his  life.  He  drove 
back  to  his  office,  glad  to  bury  himself  in  his 
heaped-up  correspondence. 

At  last  he  leaned  back  in  his  revolving  chair 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  But  one  letter  remained, 
and  that  bore  the  seal  of  the  missionary  body 
of  which  he  was  treasurer.  He  knew  what  this 
was  likely  to  contain,  and  his  lips  curved  in  a 
satisfied  smile  as  he  opened  it  leisurely.  A  slip 
of  pinkish  paper  fluttered  to  the  floor  unheeded 
as  he  read: 


384 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

"DEAR  BROTHER  HARDING  : —  It  becomes  my 
painful  duty  to  inform  you  that  there  is  a  grow- 
ing feeling  among  the  Trustees  of  our  organiza- 
tion that  your  resignation  would  be  for  the  in- 
terest of  the  body.  They  appreciate  to  a  man  the 
almost  invaluable  nature  of  the  services  you  have 
rendered,  and  the  difficulty  they  will  have  in  se- 
curing, even  for  money,  the  care  and  attention 
you  have  so  generously  given  for  love.  They 
realize  the  fatuity  of  expecting  to  duplicate  your 
business  ability  and  experience.  Nevertheless, 
the  unfortunate  rumors  which  have  been  recently 
circulated,  and  the  criticism  which  has  during 
the  last  three  months  assailed  you,  have  brought 
them  to  the  reluctant  conclusion  that  the  name  of 
the  society  should  be  severed  from  your  own. 
Personally,  let  me  assure  you  of  my  entire  sym- 
pathy with  you,  and  of  my  belief  that  you  will 
be  enabled  successfully  to  refute  the  charges. 

"  I  am  also  instructed  to  say  that  the  Trustees 
have  decided  most  regretfully  that,  under  the  ex- 
isting circumstances,  they  must  return  the  check 
for  five  thousand  dollars  which  you  so  gener- 
ously contributed  on  the  6th  inst.  to  the  running 
expenses  of  the  body. 

"  Most  fraternally  yours, 

"  ABRAM  K.  FLYNT, 

"  Secretary." 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

Mr.  Harding  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet,  and 
paced  up  and  down  the  floor.  Of  all  the  blows 
which  public  opinion  had  dealt  him,  this  was  the 
hardest.  The  missionary  organization  had  been 
his  child;  he  had  nourished  it  out  of  his  abun- 
dance, and  now,  like  his  children  by  blood,  it 
had  turned  against  him.  He  knew  how  deep 
must  be  the  feeling  of  those  godly  men,  its  Trus- 
tees, to  make  them  refuse  his  money  and  his  aid, 
and  hopelessly  alienate  him.  The  pang  became 
sharper  as  he  realized  that  they  were  virtually 
denying  him  his  reparation.  He  had  said  to 
himself  that  the  wrongs  the  American  had  done 
should  be  made  good,  and  now !  The  newspa- 
pers, a  very  scourge  to  this  sensitive  man,  would 
have  a  choice  bit  of  news. 

He  sank  into  his  chair  wearily,  too  much 
shocked  and  grieved  for  thought,  and  gazed  out 
across  the  square.  As  he  looked  idly,  with  his 
heart  full  of  bitterness,  a  carriage  drew  up  at  the 
station  and  two  people  alighted,  his  wife,  and  a 
man,  young  apparently,  but  painfully  weak.  He 
had  not  seen  his  son  since  the  accident  and 
was  shocked  at  the  change  in  the  alert  figure.  He 
saw  Faith  and  Reid  come  walking  briskly  down 
the  street  and  join  the  others  with  the  dog  circling 
about  them.  He  saw  a  chair  brought  out  into 
the  warm  autumn  sunlight,  where  Theodore  seat- 
386 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ed  himself  languidly,    while  the   bustle   of  de- 
parture went  on. 

The  noon  whistle  of  the  mills  sounded  and 
gradually  a  little  crowd  gathered  about  the  chair. 
Theodore's  men  and  his  old  companions  in  his 
father's  mills  had  assembled  to  say  good-by  —  a 
last  farewell,  many  of  them  thought  it.  The 
group  was  a  sad  one.  More  than  one  woman 
wiped  her  eyes  as  she  walked  slowly  away.  But 
the  centre  of  it  fought  the  prevailing  grief  brave- 
ly. Mr.  Harding  saw  the  thin  face  thrown  back 
more  than  once  in  laughter,  in  the  familiar  fash- 
ion. 

The  twelve-twenty  express  for  the  south  drew 
in,  and  the  business  of  departure  went  rapidly 
on.  The  glossy  dog  was  taken  to  a  rear  car. 
The  invalid  was  helped  aboard  the  train.  Mr. 
Harding  watched  breathlessly.  Deep  in  his 
heart  he  had  feared  that  when  Theodore  went 
south  Mrs.  Harding  would  go  with  him.  He 
knew  that  without  his  wife  his  life  would  be  ut- 
terly empty,  but  he  had  not  spoken.  And  now 
the  worst  seemed  coming  true.  He  held  his 
breath  as  the  slender  black-clad  figure  entered  the 
car.  She  might  merely  have  gone  aboard  to  see 
Theodore  comfortably  located ;  but  the  bell  rang 
and  the  long  train  moved  slowly  out. 
387 


Albion  Harding  laid  his  grey  head  on  his 
arms. 

How  long  he  remained  there  he  did  not  know. 
It  was  an  hour  far  more  bitter  than  that  of  death 
could  be.  He  looked  back  over  his  past  life  and 
said  to  himself  that  it  was  all  false,  all  a  failure. 
What  did  it  count  that  he  had  succeeded  ?  What 
did  it  count  that  almost  unlimited  power  was  his  ? 
The  American  was  surely  established.  With  a 
deep  indrawn  breath  he  began  to  count  the  cost, 
bitterly  and  without  disguises.  Theodore,  bid- 
ding farewell,  perhaps  forever,  to  his  birthplace, 
beaten,  broken,  disheartened;  Ordway  resting  in 
his  bankrupt's  grave;  Oakley  stooping  rapidly 
from  the  high  standard  which  he  had  set  himself, 
tarnished  in  popular  opinion  by  crooked  dealing, 
growing  reckless  and  cynical;  these  things,  he 
told  himself  bluntly,  were  his  doing.  He  had 
brought  upon  Ordway  and  Theodore  their  disas- 
ter, he  had  spurred  Oakley  to  the  work  that  had 
been  his  undoing. 

Then  his  thoughts  went  out  to  the  deeds  of  the 
American  all  over  the  country,  and  he  told  him- 
self that  these  also  were  his.  Smokeless  chim- 
neys, discouraged  workmen,  disheartened  em- 
ployers, complaining  farmers.  More  than  once 
he  had  testified  before  courts,  with  his  hand  on 
the  Bible  and  the  glow  of  truth  in  his  heart,  that 
388 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

he  knew  nothing  of  this  or  that;  but  sometimes, 
in  the  many-voiced  silence  of  the  night,  or  in  a 
moment  like  this,  he  saw  himself  more  truly. 

For  what  of  himself?  He,  who  had  counted 
the  ruin  of  others,  could  not  measure  his  own. 
What  was  he?  He  did  not  know.  He  knew 
only  that  he  was  reckoned  implacable,  unyield- 
ing, bound  to  succeed  at  any  cost,  without  feeling 
for  his  family,  his  workmen, —  a  thief  and  a 
murderer.  He  was  denied  even  the  privilege  of 
spending  himself  for  others  —  a  dry  sob  rose  in 
his  throat  at  the  thought.  In  spite  of  his  success 
he  was  a  failure,  he  was  old  and  ill,  and  alone. 
He  had  succeeded,  but  he,  and  not  he  alone,  had 
paid  the  price. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  softly,  there  was  a 
step  on  the  floor  and  Evelyn  Harding  sank  down 
by  her  husband's  side. 

"  Albion,  what  is  it  ? "  she  said  in  startled 
tones.  "  Are  you  ill  ?  Tell  me." 

"  No,  I'm  not  ill,"  he  said  mechanically. 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  with  Theodore,"  he 
said  automatically.  "  You  got  on  board  the 
train  and  I  saw  it  move  off." 

:<  Yes,  it  started  while  I  was  still  on  board,  but 
they  stopped  for  me.  I  couldn't  go.  I  tried 

389 


hard  to  make  up  my  mind  to  it,"  she  added  rap- 
idly. 

"  I  knew  you  were  thinking  of  it.  You  would 
better  have  gone,  Evelyn.  I'm  not  fit  for  you  to 
touch,"  he  added  melodramatically,  as  she  laid 
her  head  against  his  arm. 

"  Albion,  don't !  " 

"  It  is  true, —  do  you  know  what  I  am  ?  " 

She  only  shrank  closer  to  him.  She  did  not 
protest  as  he  had  hoped. 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  you  are. 
We  have  lived  as  husband  and  wife  for  thirty 
years.  I  can't  leave  you  now  any  more  than  I 
can  leave  myself,  and  I  couldn't  bear  it  away 
from  you,  thinking  of  you  all  alone  here  and  ill. 
He  didn't  need  me;  he  has  Faith,  but  you  have 
only  me." 

"  God  is  too  good  to  me,"  he  said  softly,  put- 
ting his  arms  about  her.  "  I  have  not  deserved 
that  it  should  be  as  it  was  before  between  us." 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  and  she  shrank  a  little  from 
him.  "  How  can  it  be  as  it  was  before,  when 
I'm  thinking  of  him  every  moment  of  the  day  — 
my  poor  little  boy !  " 

The  train  for  the  south  was  speeding  over 
levels  gleaming  crimson  beneath  the  setting  sun. 
The  red  light  streamed  into  the  car-window  and 
390 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

lent  a  little  color  to  Theodore's  face,  very  hag- 
gard and  weary  against  its  cushions. 

"  I'm  a  poor  stick/'  he  said  smiling  ruefully. 
"  I'm  more  tired  than  if  I  had  been  tramping  all 
day.  Do  you  know,  Faith,  I've  been  wondering 
if  I  should  ever  go  partridge  shooting  again." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  Faith  answered  brave- 
ly, and  her  lips  looked  as  if  she  unaided  might 
wrest  the  boon  from  fate.  "  You  are  gaining  all 
the  time,  Teddy." 

"That's  right.  They  didn't  think  I'd  ever 
turn  out  as  well  as  this,  did  they?  Say,  Faith," 
he  added  after  a  moment's  pause,  his  voice  falling 
as  he  spoke,  "  did  you  see  father?  " 

"  No,  where  ?  "  said  Faith  quickly. 

"  Up  at  his  office  window.  He  was  looking 
down  at  us.  He  looked  sick.  I  say,  Faith,  it's 
hard  lines  on  him." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Faith  curtly.  Her  tone  was 
not  compassionate. 

"  Oh,  everything,"  Theodore  answered  vague- 
ly. "  Do  you  know,  I'd  give  a  good  deal  to 
know  how  it  happened." 

"  Frank  knows,"  Faith  said  quickly.  "  He 
won't  tell,  though.  He  says  he  can't  prove  any- 
thing." 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  one  of  the  things  the  less 
you  know  about  the  better,"  Theodore  said  wear- 
391 


THE  WARS  OF  PEACE 

ily.  *'  There's  just  one  thing  about  it,"  he  added 
after  a  little  pause,  smiling  in  the  old  radiant 
fashion.  "  Most  people  would  think  I  was  pret- 
ty well  done  for,  and  I  don't  deny  I  am  up 
against  it.  But  after  all,  Faith,  I've  got  you  — 
and  that's  everything  —  and  I  haven't  lost  my 
grip." 


392 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 

The  Siege  Of  Youth.  By  FRANCES  CHARLES,  author 
of  "  In  the  Country  God  Forgot."  Illustrated.  12010. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

This  is  a  story  of  the  present  day,  and  its  scene  is  San  Francisco,  the 
author's  home.  It  deals  with  art,  with  journalism,  and  with  human 
nature,  and  its  love  episodes  are  charming  and  true  to  life.  The 
three  women  characters  of  the  book  are  finely  drawn  and  contrasted, 
there  is  much  local  color  in  the  story,  and  a  great  deal  of  bright  and 
epigrammatic  writing.  The  author's  previous  book,  "  In  the  Coun- 
try God  Forgot,"  has  been  received  with  the  utmost  favor.  The 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser  says  it  "  discloses  a  new  writer  of  uncommon 
power." 

Barbara,  a  Woman  of  the  West.     By  JOHN 

H.  WHITSON.     Illustrated  by  Chase  Emerson.     12010. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  distinctively  American  novel,  dealing  with  life  in  the  far  West,  and 
in  many  ways  remarkable,  with  a  novel  plot  and  unusual  situations. 
The  scenes  of  the  story  are  a  Western  ranch,  Cripple  Creek,  and 
the  City  of  San  Diego.  The  heroine,  Barbara,  is  the  loyal  wife  of  a 
somewhat  self-centred  man  of  literary  tastes,  Roger  Timberly,  living 
on  a  ranch  in  Kansas.  Barbara's  long  and  patient  quest  for  her  hus- 
band, who  has  gone  to  Cripple  Creek  to  visit  a  mine,  the  means  which 
she  adopts  to  support  herself,  the  ardor  with  which  she  is  wooed  by 
Gilbert  Bream,  and  the  complications  which  ensue  are  extremely 
interesting. 

The  Shadow  of  the  Czar.  By  JOHN  R.  CARLING. 
Illustrated.  i2mo.  Decorated  cloth,  $1.50.  Fifth 
Edition. 

An  engrossing  romance  of  the  sturdy,  wholesome  sort,  in  which  the 
action  is  never  allowed  to  drag,  best  describes  this  popular  novel. 
"The  Shadow  of  the  Czar"  is  a  stirring  story  of  the  romantic  attach- 
ment of  a  dashing  English  officer  for  Princess  Barbara,  of  the  old 
Polish  Principality  of  Czernova,  and  the  conspiracy  of  the  Duke  of 
Bora,  aided  by  Russia,  to  dispossess  the  princess  of  her  throne. 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 


The  Dominant  Strain.  A  Novel.  By  ANNA  CHAPIN 
RAY,  author  of  "  Teddy,  her  Book,"  etc.  Illustrated 
in  color  by  Harry  C.  Edwards.  i2mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  #1.50. 

Anna  Chapin  Ray's  new  novel  has  for  its  hero  Cotton  Mather  Thayer, 
whose  father  was  a  Boston  blueblood,  and  whose  mother  was  a  Rus- 
sian musician.  The  latter  gave  to  him  his  musical  temperament,  and 
the  title  of  the  book  suggests  the  author's  main  motif  —  the  warring 
strains,  Puritan  and  Slav,  in  her  hero.  The  central  idea  is  the  mis- 
take a  woman  makes  who  attempts  to  reform  a  man  after  marriage. 
Beatrix  Dane,  the  heroine  of  the  book,  discovers  during  her  engage- 
ment that  Lorimer,  her  lover,  has  an  inherited  appetite  for  drink,  but 
from  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty  does  not  break  her  troth,  and  her  inti- 
mate friends  shrink  from  any  interference.  Much  of  the  novel  has  a 
decidedly  musical  atmosphere,  and  the  attitude  of  some  portions  of 
New  York  society  toward  musical  people  is  well  described. 

A  Detached  Pirate.  By  HELEN  MILECETE.  Illus- 
trated in  color  by  I.  H.  Caliga.  i2mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  $1.50. 

A  misunderstanding,  a  divorce,  and  a  reconciliation  furnish  the  theme 
of  this  bright,  clever,  witty,  society  novel.  The  events  occur  in 
London,  in  Halifax  and  its  garrison,  and  in  New  York ;  and  the  story 
is  told  by  Gay  Vandeleur,  a  very  charming  heroine.  The  book  will 
entertain  and  delight  all  who  read  it. 

The  Pharaoh  and  the  Priest.    Translated  from 

the  original  Polish  of  ALEXANDER  GLOVATSKI,  by  JERE- 
MIAH CURTIN.  Illustrated.  12  mo.  Decorated  cloth, 
$1.50.  Fifth  Edition. 

A  powerful  portrayal  of  Ancient  Egypt  in  the  eleventh  century  before ' 
Christ  is  this  novel  in  which  Alexander  Glovatski  has  vividly  de- 
picted the  pitiless  struggle  between  the  pharaoh  and  the  priesthood 
for  supremacy.  "  Here  is  a  historical  novel  in  the  best  sense,"  says 
the  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser,  "  a  novel  which  makes  a  van- 
ished civilization  live  again." 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 


Love  Thrives  in  War.  A  Romance  of  the  Frontier 
in  1812.  By  MARY  CATHERINE  CROWLEY,  author  of 
"  A  Daughter  of  New  France,"  "The  Heroine  of  the 
Strait,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  Clyde  O.  De  Land.  i2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  surrender  of  General  Howe  and  his  American  army  to  the  British 
and  their  Indian  allies  under  Tecumseh,  and  other  stirring  events  of 
the  War  of  1812  form  the  historical  background  of  Miss  Crowley's 
latest  romance.  The  reader's  interest  is  at  once  centered  in  the 
heroine,  Laurente  Macintosh,  a  pretty  and  coquettish  Scotch  girl. 
The  many  incidents  which  occur  in  the  vicinity  of  Detroit  are  related 
with  skill  and  grace.  The  characters,  real  and  fictitious,  are  strongly 
contrasted.  Miss  Crowley's  new  romance  is  strongly  imaginative  and 
picturesquely  written,  wholesome,  inspiring,  and  absorbing. 

The  Wars  Of  Peace.  By  A.  F.  WILSON.  Illustrated 
by  H.  C.  Ireland.  i2mo.  Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  strong  and  skilfully  constructed  novel  upon  a  subject  of  the  great- 
est importance  and  interest  at  the  present  time,  — "  Trusts  "  and 
their  consequences.  Albion  Hardy,  a  successful  and  immensely  am- 
bitious financier,  organizes  an  industrial  combination  which  causes 
much  suffering  and  disaster,  and  eventually  alienates  his  only  son, 
who,  declining  to  enter  the  "  Trust,"  withdraws  his  capital  from  his 
father's  business,  and  buys  a  small  mill  and  attempts  to  manage  it 
according  to  his  own  ideas.  The  account  of  the  destruction  of 
Theodore  Hardy's  mill,  and  his  rescue,  is  dramatic,  vivid,  and 
thrilling. 

The  Queen  of  Quelparte.  By  ARCHER  B.  HULBERT. 
Illustrated  by  Winfield  S.  Lukens.  i2mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  $1.50.  Second  Edition. 

This  stirring  and  fantastic  romance  of  the  far  East  has  for  its  chief 
motive  a  Russian  intrigue  to  throw  Quelparte,  an  island  province  of 
Korea,  into  the  hands  of  Japan  as  a  sop  for  the  possession  of  Port 
Arthur  by  the  Czar,  and  the  efforts  of  the  Chinese  directed  by  Prince 
Tuen,  to  prevent  it.  There  is  a  charming  love  story  running  through 
the  novel,  the  hero  being  Robert  Martyn.  an  American  in  the  employ 
of  a  Russian  diplomat,  and  the  heroine  is  the  latter's  daughter. 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 

A  Rose  of  Normandy.  By  WILLIAM  R.  A.  WILSON. 
Illustrated  by  Ch.  Grunwald.  i2mo.  Decorated  cloth, 
$1.50. 

A  most  entertaining  historical  romance  of  France  and  Canada  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Robert  Cavelier,  Sieur  de  la  Salle,  and  his 
faithful  lieutenant,  Henri  de  Tonti,  are  leading  characters,  the  latter 
being  the  hero  of  the  book.  The  explorations  of  La  Salle,  his  hard- 
ships and  adventures,  the  love  of  Tonti  for  Renee,  the  "  Rose  of 
Normandy,"  their  escapes  from  the  Indians,  and  other  adventures, 
make  up  a  story  which  the  author  has  told  with  great  spirit. 

The  Spoils  Of  Empire.  A  Romance  of  the  Old 
World  and  the  New.  By  FRANCIS  NEWTON  THORPE, 
author  of  "  The  Constitutional  History  of  the  United 
States,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  Frank  B.  Masters.  i2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Spanish  Inquisition  and  the  wondrous  splendor  and  power  of 
Mexico  in  the  time  of  Montezuma  furnish  the  rich  historical  back- 
ground of  this  brilliant  and  absorbing  romance.  The  conquest  of 
Mexico  by  the  adventurous  Spaniards  is  vividly  described ;  and  the 
passion  of  Juan  Estoval,  a  follower  of  Cortez,  for  the  beautiful  Aztec 
princess,  Dorothea,  the  daughter  of  Montezuma,  furnishes  a  tender 
and  charming  love  story. 

Sarah  Tuldon.  A  Woman  Who  Had  Her  Way.  By 
ORME  AGNUS,  author  of  "  Love  in  Our  Village,"  "Jan 
Oxber,"  etc.  Illustrated.  i2tno.  Decorated  cloth, 
$1.50. 

A  remarkable  study  of  an  English  peasant  girl  of  strong  character 
who  was  developed  by  the  circumstances  of  her  life  into  a  fine,  noble- 
hearted,  and  generous  woman.  Sarah  Tuldon  is  a  very  unusual,  origi- 
nal, and  racy  type  of  character,  and  outside  of  Thomas  Hardy's  books 
there  is  no  such  realistic  study  of  conditions  which  exist  in  England 
to-day  among  the  laborers,  as  that  given  in  the  pages  of  this  story. 
The  author  has  genuine  humor  and  pathos  and  great  dramatic  skill. 


